A Thrill of Hope, the Weary World Rejoices
by comewhatmay.x
Summary: Seven days of CB angst, fluff, and love. A compilation of holiday oneshots written for the very best GG-obsessed-friends a girl could have. The seventh day: S3 Chuck and Blair escape to Courchevel.
1. Winter Wonderland

**AN: They say the holidays are a time for good cheer and goodwill. Thus, I am embarking on a 'Twelve days till Christmas' fic, a collection of oneshots written for a few of my favorites - my GG family, so to speak. A little angst, a little humor, and enough CB lovin' to get us through the New Year. Each oneshot takes its title (and perhaps a smidgen of inspiration) from a Christmas carol.  
**

**Winter Wonderland was written for _The Very Last Valkyrie_, writer extraordinaire and fellow Kate Spade aficionado whose Tiffany-frame-worthy reviews are truly the highlights of my day. I'm eagerly awaiting the day we're both accepted into Oxford and take over the university, S&B style. ****_Joyeux Noel, B!_**

**The request was for holiday fluff, and my prompts were: Snow, Sugar, and Shoes. **

**Special thanks to bethaboo, my amazing, amazing beta.  
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* * *

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_"In the lane, snow is glistening_  
_A beautiful sight_  
_We're happy tonight_  
_Walking in a winter wonderland"_

_-_Winter Wonderland

* * *

"Uh…Blair?" Chuck poked his head tentatively out of the pantry, a look of extreme apprehension on his face.

He had thought Blair vicious when fighting over the last pair of limited edition Manolos in a size six, or perhaps when brutally castigating one of her minions.

This, however, was a new level of Blair-vicious.

Perhaps this was why Dorota had given the job of baking an cranberry pie for Christmas to Chuck this year. The maid had given him an apron, whispered a covert, _"Good luck, Mr. Chuck."_, and scampered from the penthouse.

Chuck had never known that baking a simple _pie_ could take quite so long. Or require this many steps. Steps that Blair had required to be carried out with the utmost perfection and unwavering excellence.

Blair had nearly fallen to the floor in shock when Chuck had dared suggest they use _pre-made_ dough.

The venomous glare she had sent him for "suggesting they alter her father's recipe" was truly formidable, indeed.

And Chuck now wondered what his punishment was to be when he announced to Blair that they had run out of sugar.

"What?" she snapped, joining him at the entrance to the Waldorf's incredibly oversized pantry.

"You're out of sugar," Chuck answered meekly, showing Blair the empty canister.

"Impossible," Blair seethed, elbowing him out of the way. "You're probably confusing the sugar with something else. I asked Dorota to ensure that we had _everything_."

Turning the canister towards Blair so the word _Sugar_ could be easily read, Chuck braced himself for an outburst.

Nearly growling, Blair stomped over to her phone and dialed with incredible speed. While Blair tapped her foot impatiently, Chuck returned the canister to its perch amongst others of the height and shape—it had taken him nearly ten minutes to find it in the first place—and stepped out of the pantry.

"Straight to voicemail," Blair growled, slamming her phone onto the marble countertop with unnecessary force.

"Does this mean we won't be making pie?" Chuck asked, the excitement he tried to keep at bay clearly evident in his voice.

"No," Blair said venomously, turning to glare at him before untying her own, lace-trimmed apron. "We'll just have to get some ourselves."

"It's a blizzard, outside, Blair." Chuck gestured towards the windows, and the falling snow outside. While the snow promised a White Christmas, it also promised icy roads and traffic. Among other things.

"Can't we get someone else to deliver some sugar?" Chuck nearly begged, not wanting to brave the snow outside.

Blair shrugged, "What's Preston doing?"

"Nothing that's more important than buying sugar and having it delivered within the hour," Chuck assured her.

But the call, which Chuck had placed all his hopes on, went unanswered. Resolving to fire the imbecile the coming Monday, Chuck turned to Blair, apprehensive.

Within the next twenty minutes, every option had been exhausted. Excuses had been made, and calls had gone unanswered, as if the entire world were pitting Chuck and Blair against the storm currently ravaging New York.

"It's going to take two _hours_ to drive there," Chuck told Blair, frowning slightly. The traffic in New York had gotten worse with the roads covered in snow, and he had not envisioned his afternoon spent in a cab. Truthfully, he'd expected they would be finished with the pie in thirty minutes, and the rest of the afternoon could be spent enjoying—

"Then we'll walk."

Blair's words sounded alien to the both of them, but Chuck's look of incredulity did not match Blair's look of resolve.

"We're _walking_?" he asked in astonishment.

"Well we can't very well have Daddy show up for dinner and not have pie tonight," Blair explained with a roll of her eyes.

"We could always have one _catered_ with the rest of the dinner," Chuck reasoned, but he knew his argument was futile as Blair slipped on her calfskin gloves.

"We're going to Williams Sonoma, not Gramercy Park," Blair defended. "It's not that bad of a walk."

"In those shoes?" Chuck nodded towards Blair's brand new Loeffler Randall boots. The ones she had forced Chuck to stand in line for, while she and Serena perused Bergdorf's first floor.

"They're gorgeous, aren't they?" Blair said with a sigh, taking a moment to admire her three-inch, camel kidskin boots.

"In this snow? They're a disaster waiting to happen."

"I've been walking in heels since the first grade," Blair snapped, "I'll be fine, Chuck."

"Fine," Chuck conceded. "Just don't expect me to bake the entire pie while you're in the hospital because of an ankle fracture."

"I'll be _fine_," Blair said with a frustrated sigh, waiting for the elevator doors to open.

Herman, Blair's doorman, looked in surprise as the two, wrapped in wool coats and cashmere scarves, walked through the doors and turned, without waiting for a car.

"This is a terrible idea," Chuck whispered under his breath, as snow fell thickly and a frigid wind bit sharply at their exposed skin.

"I'm making this pie if it kills me," Blair said in return, though she grasped Chuck's hand harder and nearly fell on him as she tripped slightly. Avoiding Chuck's '_see?_' look, she straightened and they forged on.

Strains of Christmas music could be heard from nearby shops, and as they walked hand in hand, through the winter storm, Chuck almost found it…pleasant.

Blair seemed to be lost in thought as they continued on, and content to remain in the comfortable silence that had passed between them, Chuck only drew her closer as they walked on.

However, the comfortable silence only lasted a short while, until Blair let out an involuntary squeal, hitting a patch of ice that Chuck had just barely missed.

One of her beloved shoes catching on a divot in the ice, Blair fell backwards, arms flailing as Chuck let go of her hand quickly. The heel of her shoe snapped, and Blair landed with an unceremonious _thump_, all while passerby looked on with slight amusement.

"Blair?" Chuck edged forward cautiously, careful to avoid the patch of ice that Blair had slipped on.

"You shouldn't have let go of me, you idiot," came Blair's voice from within her cashmere scarf and disarray of curls.

"Then we both would have fallen and made a complete fool of ourselves," Chuck countered, as he reached out to the fallen Blair, palm up.

Slapping his hand away, Blair got to her feet awkwardly, one shoe now heel-less, cradling her left wrist in her hand.

Glancing helplessly around her, Blair's gaze fell on the severed heel of her shoe. Tears sprang to her eyes, and Chuck stepped forward, alarmed.

"We can always get another pair," he placated, his voice slightly afraid of Blair's antics.

"I'm not crying over my shoes, you Mother Chucker," Blair snapped. "Although they were limited edition," she teetered slightly, off balance thanks to being three inches taller on her left side.

"I think my wrist is broken," she admitted, attempting to flex her fingers, and winced in pain.

"Let me—" Chuck reached out to her, but Blair recoiled back, glaring at him.

"Blair," Chuck said exasperatedly, and Blair's glare increased in intensity.

"This wouldn't be happening if you had just held _onto_ me," Blair all but growled, though she winced slightly, still cradling her injured hand.

"And this wouldn't have happened if you didn't wear those ridiculous—"

Blair's glare became venomous, and Chuck cut himself off abruptly, knowing that commenting on her choice of footwear was not the best idea.

"Just let me see your wrist," Chuck said gently, and Blair conceded, stretching out her injured wrist.

Removing her leather gloves, Chuck winced at the sight of Blair's tiny wrist, abnormally twisted and already swelled to twice its normal size.

"I think it's broken," Chuck declared, prodding gently with the tips of his own fingers. Letting out a yelp of pain, Blair snatched back her wrist, cradling it in her other hand.

"Thank you, Dr. Obvious," Blair said dryly, then glanced around, hoping to see a—

"You have got to be kidding me," she groaned, and Chuck followed her gaze, landing on the only shoe store close by.

"I am _not_ wearing Crocs," Blair declared, still leaning on Chuck for support. She would have removed her boots already, but risking frostbite was _not_ on her agenda.

None of this was, really.

"It won't be that bad," Chuck said, attempting to appease Blair. But the teasing tone of his voice did not go unnoticed by Blair.

"Can we just call a car to take us to the hospital?" Blair pleaded, but Chuck shook his head.

"It'll take _hours_ for a car to reach us," Chuck reasoned. "The hospital is barely two blocks away—"

"I am not _walking_ to the hospital. Have you seen my shoes?"

Chuck nodded towards the Crocs store, barely restraining a smirk. "I guess it's a good idea you decided to fall in front of a shoe store."

"There isn't a chance in hell," Blair proclaimed, then leaning on Chuck, took a few steps forward. "I can make it to the hospital."

"You're missing a heel," Chuck told her. "Blair, you won't be able to make it."

Gritting her teeth and tightening her hold on Chuck's upper arm, Blair attempted an odd gait, one that managed to get her about four steps, before she gave up.

"It's cold," Blair reasoned. "No one wears _Crocs_, let alone in the cold."

"Looks like they have ones lined in fur," Chuck said, nodding towards the window display.

Suppressing a whimper, Blair ventured forward—still clinging to Chuck—and stepped inside the store.

"I'm going to kill you," she murmured, as a saleslady rushed forward, looking curiously at Blair's missing heel.

"Looking for another pair of shoes, I presume?" she asked with a laugh, only to be cut off by Blair's fiercest glare.

"Something I'd actually wear in public, thanks," Blair replied primly, eyes scanning the walls of brightly colored rubber—ugh—_Crocs_.

"We have boots, if you're so inclined," the girl said timidly, pointing towards a back wall.

Hobbling over to the wall, still holding her left hand gingerly.

"Those," she pointed towards a pair of dove grey boots, ones that actually _looked_ like something she could conceivably wear.

"Size?" the girl prompted, and Blair sighed. At least in Bergdorf's, they had been so familiar with her they hadn't asked her size in years.

"Six," she replied frostily, sitting down onto a nearby chair.

"The Huliewho's are quite popular," the girl said. "We only have a nine-and-a-half left…"

Scrunching up her nose, Blair figured that three sizes wasn't _too_ much of a stretch, but Chuck interrupted, pointing towards a bright yellow boot, "What about those?"

Ignoring Blair's look of pure venom, the girl brought out a size six, setting it down in front of Blair with a proud smile.

"No."

"Blair."

"There is _no_ way, Bass."

Chuck raised his eyebrows, checking his watch. "We're never going to have this pie done in time unless—"

With some aid from the girl, Blair pulled off her beloved boots and slipped her feet into the yellow…monstrosities.

"Must they be yellow?" Blair asked, wrinkling her nose.

"It's winter," the girl responded, "we can barely keep anything in stock."

"We'll take them," Chuck said, handing over his card before any other protests could be made.

"I could have paid—" Blair piped up, but Chuck merely shrugged.

"Think of it as an apology for letting you fall."

"This isn't an apology," Blair raged, "it's a punishment. You owe me a new pair of boots."

"Look, Blair, I'll buy you a dozen pairs of boots if you'll just wear these so we can get to the hospital."

"I'm fine," Blair said, the slightest of blushes forming at his concern. Since when had Chuck Bass ever thought of anyone but himself?

"Your wrist is broken," Chuck volleyed back, offering his hand.

Without the added height, Blair found herself considerably shorter than Chuck, and as they exited the store, she avoided mirrors at all costs.

The looks from passerby were enough.

…

The waiting was excruciating. The minor fatality of Blair's injury, coupled with the understaffed hospital and numerous holiday-related injuries, made for an extensive waiting time.

Until the hospital finally gave into Chuck's promise of a hefty donation, and conceded to Blair's threats—they knew the names Waldorf and Bass well, and they were loath to anger two people belonging to some of Manhattan's most prominent families.

So it was merely two hours later when they finally emerged from the hospital, Blair's left wrist clad in a cast, white as the snow outside, and her lamenting over the yellow boots finally ceasing.

En route to Williams Sonoma—_"_Thank _goodness_ we started early, we may still be able to bake that pie"—Blair had discarded her yellow boots for fur-lined Burberry, which Chuck had been forced to purchase while they were fitting her for her cast.

And three hours later, Chuck and Blair finally arrived at the Waldorf penthouse, weary, tired, and cold, but armed with enough sugar to bake the pie.

"At least we made the pie crust before," Blair grumbled, glancing at the clock. Chuck winced at the memory, and vowed that if the Empire ever failed him, he was not to go into baking.

"You'll have to make the filling," Blair continued, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Chuck, however, froze in his steps, a look of pure horror on his face.

"Blair," he nearly begged, "it was bad enough when I had to _help_ you make the pie. I won't be able to do it on my own."

"My left hand is in a _cast_," Blair explained drily, "you're on your own with this one, Bass. It's your fault for—"

"If I hadn't let go, I probably would've broken my wrist as well," Chuck reasoned.

Blair flashed him a smile, or rather, a smirk.

"Then I guess it's a good thing you let go," she trilled.

Groaning, Chuck followed Blair into the kitchen, the once immaculate kitchen that now bore the brunt of their efforts. Nearly every surface was covered in some sort of ingredient or dirty bowl, and the egg Chuck had dropped onto the floor was still there—neither of them had wanted to clean it up.

"Alright," Blair said, sitting down on a stool and picking up the recipe card, "we need sugar, cinnamon, flour, salt, and nutmeg in a saucepan."

Blair looked up expectantly, and Chuck looked at her blankly, the only word that had processed was _sugar_. And that was because he was holding it.

"Cinnamon," Blair enunciated, pointing towards a cupboard. "The jar is labeled."

Chuck trudged wearily to the pantry, and with relative ease, found the spice. Setting it carefully beside one of the few clean bowls, he turned to Blair for the next ingredient.

"Nutmeg," she said, nodding towards the cupboard again, "and salt. You should know where the flour is by now."

_This isn't so bad_, he thought, lining up the ingredients and looking at Blair expectantly.

"Saucepan," was her next command, and when a blank stare was her only response, hopped off her stool and to another cupboard, managing to extract what Chuck assumed was a saucepan.

Grabbing the measuring cups and spoons—he had never touched one before that afternoon—Chuck brought the ingredients to Blair.

As he measured out the sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt, Chuck found himself actually…enjoying it. There was some sort of odd satisfaction at mixing and measuring the appropriate ingredients together.

"Oranges," Blair murmured, reading from the recipe card. "We need orange juice. Can you squeeze an orange?"

Chuck, being Chuck Bass, found the statement amusing, though he was sure any other normal person wouldn't have inferred an innuendo from a standard culinary phrase.

But Blair's glare stopped his laugh short, and Chuck dutifully retrieved the oranges, looking completely lost as he held them out to Blair.

"Knives are over there," Blair said with a sigh, "and you have to cut the oranges in _half_ Chuck."

"I didn't grow up with a polish maid teaching me to cook," Chuck retorted quietly, but going towards the knives regardless.

"No," Blair returned with a smirk, "you grew up with French au-pairs who taught you how to—"

Her words are cut off by a rather colorful string of swear words from Chuck, who, attempting to cut the orange, sliced his finger instead.

"You cut yourself?" Blair asked, exasperated. "Really, Chuck?"

"Just get me a band-aid," he said, wincing as he applied pressure to the wound.

"Apparently making this pie is more dangerous than we thought," Blair mused out loud, fishing through a drawer for a band-aid.

"I'll say," Chuck agreed. "What do you say we order one from—"

"No," Blair said firmly, throwing the band-aid at him. "We've got this far."

And apparently they didn't have very far to go. With his finger bandaged, Chuck managed to cut and squeeze an orange, without much aid from Blair. As Blair stirred the orange juice into the mixture, he retrieved the cranberries from the refrigerator.

Finally, half an hour and zero accidents later, the pie was in the oven, and Chuck was leaning against the countertop, absolutely exhausted.

"Done," he proclaimed, setting the pink-and-white striped oven mitts aside. The ones Blair had giggled and laughed at, then proceeded to take a picture to send to Serena. Because Chuck, not wanting to get flour on his Dolce & Gabbana, had opted for Dorota's lavender apron, telling Blair that purple suited him anyways.

He made a mental note to buy a more…masculine apron for next time, when Chuck shook his head. There wasn't going to _be_ a next time.

"Not even close," Blair said, pointing to the dirty dishes around the kitchen. "You've got to clean up before everyone arrives."

Chuck looked at Blair, hoping that she was kidding. But the look on her face told him she was completely serious.

"Isn't this why we have _staff_?" He asked incredulously.

"I gave them the day off, remember? I didn't think making pie would be such a big production," Blair singsonged, and Chuck narrowed his eyes. She was enjoying this.

"Or we could leave it till the caterers get here," Chuck suggested, walking closer to Blair and smirking suggestively, "and you could reward me for—"

"They'll need space for the _food_, Chuck," Blair said, annoyed as she shoved away his wandering hands.

"You could help," Chuck suggested, and only got a laugh in response.

"Cast, remember? I can't get it wet."

Chuck shot Blair a glare of faux-loathing as he rolled up his sleeves, beginning to pile the dishes beside the sink.

Frowning, Chuck knew that washing the dishes was going to be as big of a production as making the damn pie.

"Just put them in the dishwasher," Blair pointed towards the generously sized dishwasher, "the other stuff you can leave for the others."

Nodding, Chuck began to put plates into the dishwasher at random, until, five minutes in, he found that there was an actual _method_ to placing dishes in the dishwasher.

"And if you're done soon…" Blair's voice trailed off suggestively, and as she slid off the stool with a parting smirk, Chuck hurried to finish the dishes.

Ten minutes later, he had flour in his hair, his six-hundred-dollar pants had been ruined, and he appeared in the doorway of Blair's bedroom with a smirk of what was to come.

And Blair, who had managed to get out of her dress and into a silk negligee even with her cast, made trudging through snowy New York, slicing his finger with a knife, and _baking_, well worth it.

…

Tilting his head back with a contented sigh, Chuck closed his eyes as Blair snuggled closer, and taking a deep, relaxing breath, smelled—

"Is that _smoke_?"

Chuck's eyes popped open, and Blair glared at him, rolling over to grab her robe. Together, half-clothed, they rushed down to the kitchen, only to find plumes of dark grey smoke coming from the oven.

It was a miracle the fire alarm hadn't gone off, Chuck thought, but just as he grabbed the oven mitts, a loud blaring filled the penthouse.

A litany of curses went unheard by Blair, who was screaming at Chuck as she stormed upstairs to dress quickly. Chuck, who had managed to turn off the oven and extract the pie, setting it gingerly on the stove, had no such intelligent thoughts.

It was black. Utterly charred and completely inedible.

All he could think of was how Blair would probably withhold sex for a week when she saw the pie—and that was how the firefighters found him when they stormed into the apartment.

In his boxers, pink-and-white oven mitts, and hanging his head dejectedly beside the oven.

Blair, who had appeared in a white shift and tights when she heard the elevator, had barely held in her giggles.

Finally, twenty minutes later, the firefighters finished checking the penthouse, and left with a few parting comments directed Chuck, who was now dressed in his pants and rumpled shirt.

Sighing, Blair picked up her phone, "I suppose we will have to get a pie from Dean & Deluca."

"You're not going to berate me for destroying that one?" Chuck nodded towards the charred pie, which was still smoking slightly.

Blair stifled a laugh, "I think watching that fireman give you his number was gratifying enough."

…

"A lovely dinner, Blair Bear," Harold proclaimed, smiling proudly at Blair. "Though I am disappointed we didn't get to eat that cranberry pie you made."

"It's alright, Daddy," Blair said sweetly, with a not-so-sweet glance Chuck's way. "There's always next year."

It took all of Chuck's willpower not to groan.

* * *

_fin_


	2. The Holly and The Ivy

**AN: Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews:) Waking up to review e-mails is akin to Christmas morning - thanks everyone! I won't be able to do individual review replies, unfortunately, because I'm quite pressed for time at the moment - writing this was a bit of a challenge in itself! It's quite long, longer than I intended, but the story grew on its own. **

**The Holly and The Ivy was written for the incredible _SaturnineSunshine_, who lets me beta her fantabulous work, is my co-collaborator in our fic Vindication_,_ and undoubtedly the Queen of oneshots (they're amazing). We've discussed Gossip Girl, Mad Men, and Desperate Housewives for hours on end - and stayed up till three (six for her) in the morning just writing. I'm sure you can tell I love the girl to death.**

** My prompts were jealous!Chuck and illicit drugs. Knowing C's love of proposals, sex tapes, and drunk!Chuck, The Holly and The Ivy was born (the 'true' meaning of the song is also quite CB-like, if you care to look it up). Merry Christmas, C!**

**And thanks to my beta, bethaboo, who got this back to me in record time, and to Bforqueen, my fab pre-reader.  


* * *

**

"_The holly bears a berry,  
As red as any blood"_

-The Holly and The Ivy

* * *

It was half past eight when Chuck Bass staggered in, drunk, disorderly, and dapper in a black suit and red bowtie. 'Tis the season, he thought wryly, as he took in the holly and garlands that decorated the penthouse Blair shared with—

A wry chuckle escaped him as he thought of the other man, the one she was supposed to marry in mere months.

A few guests turned as he staggered from the elevator, titters and whispers failing to drown out the staccato of four-inch Louboutins against the limestone floor.

"What are you doing _here_?" Blair Waldorf-soon-to-be-Laches hissed, attempting to steer him away from the curious gazes of her guests.

"To celebrate yours and Devon's engagement, _of course_," Chuck sneered, but the insult fell flat as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the opposite wall.

"You weren't invited," Blair growled, still attempting to shield his drunken form.

"Your best friend left her invitation behind," Chuck explained, and Blair rolled her eyes, pulling Chuck into an alcove as Kerry and Jason Macdonald passed by.

The alcove was but a mere nook, and Chuck found Blair pressed up against him, glancing around warily for any other intruders. His hands found their way around her waist, and Blair frowned, as if she had just become conscious of the fact that she was close enough to—

"Are you _high_?" Blair asked incredulously, reeling back just as Chuck attempted to draw her closer. Her nose was wrinkled at the sweet scent that clung to his suit, combined with the heady scent of scotch that lingered on his breath.

Chuck didn't answer, only smirked as Blair fumed, trailing his hand down the side of her bare arm.

Slapping his arm away, Blair pushed against his chest, towards the elevator as the room swirled around Chuck.

The force of her shove sent him reeling, and Chuck stumbled once more, his vision clouded as he attempted to right himself.

Instead, he ended up on the floor, back pressed up against a stone column, the glass vase perched precariously atop beginning to worry Blair.

Sighing, Blair took one last look at her guests, mentally calculating the time it would take her to get Chuck back to the Empire.

"How did you get here?" Blair said with a sigh, proffering a perfectly manicured hand at the fallen Chuck.

Her fingernails were bitten to tiny nubs, he noticed. Blair Waldorf, he knew, would_ never _have picked up such a habit—it simply didn't suit her prim and proper nature.

"What happened to your nails?" he mumbled, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. With a great effort, he managed to put his left foot in front of his right—an accomplishment, he decided.

"What?" Blair replied absentmindedly, half-hauling Chuck towards the elevator and hoping that her guests would stay where they were supposed to be and not venture into the lobby.

"Your nails," Chuck enunciated slowly, dragging out each word. "They're bitten."

Blair took a quick glance at her polished nails, surprised that Chuck had noticed the change in length when no one but her manicurist had previously.

By now, she shouldn't have been surprised—he was Chuck Bass.

"Stress," Blair said quickly, turning her head as she jabbed the button for the elevator.

Footsteps echoed across the foyer, and Blair cringed, as she turned, face-to-face with one angry—if confused—Devon Laches.

"Blair?" he inquired, glancing warily at a smirking Chuck behind her, "What's going on?"

"I need to take Chuck home," Blair said with a placid smile, one that was all sweetness and forced fondness. "I'm just going to call Arthur to—"

"I gave Arthur the day off," Chuck interjected, and Blair turned, her sweet expression vanishing in a second, replaced with a venomous glare.

"And how did you get here?" Blair sneered back, momentarily forgetting that her fiancé was in the same room.

It had always been like that. Chuck had the power to draw her in, to make her forget about everything around her, everything but him.

"Walked," Chuck explained simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Blair snorted delicately, a look of derision in her eyes.

"Chuck Bass doesn't walk."

He shrugged, "I was thinking."

"About?" Blair challenged, though as soon as the words left, she knew his answer would be unacceptable for Devon's ears. Turning back towards the confused man, Blair put on her sweetest smile.

"Darling," she placated, and she just _knew_ that Chuck was rolling his eyes behind her, "could you please attend to the guests? I'm just going to get a cab for Chuck—"

"Chuck Bass doesn't take cabs," Blair heard, and she wheeled around once more, fury evident.

"Unless you want to _walk_ back to the Empire, I suggest you—"

Devon, sensing that something was wrong—he had never seen Blair get this way, after all—stepped forward, wrapping a protective arm around Blair's waist.

And Chuck, who had been barely keeping himself in check at the sight of another man's diamond on her right hand, clenched his fists, his demeanor darkening instantly.

"I'm sure _Chuck_," Devon said his name with obvious scorn, "is able to exit the building himself."

Blair rolled her eyes, but stopped short before Devon caught a glance at her expression.

"He's clearly intoxicated," Blair retorted, softening her words with a false smile.

Chuck nearly lost it at the sight of Devon and Blair talking about him, in _front_ of him, as if he were but a mere teenager, in need of a caretaker.

"I'll take him," suggested Devon tightly, and Chuck saw Blair tense at the proposal, or rather, demand. "You attend to our guests."

"I don't need a babysitter," Chuck interrupted snidely, throwing a glare at the other man. "I'm perfectly capable of removing myself from the premises. That is, if I _choose_ to."

"Shut up, Bass," Blair snapped. "I'm taking you downstairs. "

Her glare told both men that her words were not to be contested, and Devon let go of her waist with apparent reluctance as Chuck smirked.

Upon spotting Chuck's smirk, a shadow crossed Devon's face, and he pulled Blair back, kissing her fiercely, as if proving something to the now-livid Chuck Bass.

When Blair finally managed to pull away, the elevator had _finally_ arrived, and she stepped in, pulling Chuck along with her.

His eyes were dark, his countenance furious as he stood, glaring at the doors from which they had just entered,

Blair bit her lip, determined to avoid his gaze for the remainder of the elevator ride. Chuck, however, had other ideas.

Reaching over, until she was enveloped with the cloyingly sweet smell of Chuck's favored vices and something obstinately _Chuck Bass_, he pressed the emergency button with deliberate slowness.

Blair, who had found herself unaware, snapped out of her reverie just as the elevator stopped.

"What are you doing now, Bass?" she asked, exasperation coloring her tone.

"Making you forget about that moronic simpleton," Chuck growled, and suddenly she was pressed up against the cool glass of the elevator, her skin prickling with heat as Chuck's eager hands trailed over her shoulders and between her exposed shoulder blades.

Her gasp was wild, feral, almost, and within moments, her dress had been hiked up over her hips, exposing creamy thighs and the palest pink La Perlas.

"Chuck," she gasped, as he trailed kisses down her collarbone, and a more rational part of her brain told her to stop, told her she was engaged, her own engagement party was happening a few floors above, and there were guests in attendance who craved both gossip and a scandal.

But then Chuck looked at her, his eyes dark and foreboding as her lips parted under the onslaught of his kiss.

Her hands found his belt buckle, and almost expertly, she divested him of his pants as he found similar liberties with her La Perlas.

Devon Laches was the last person on her mind as Chuck slid inside, and his hands gripped her hips tightly, until the pain of a metal railing digging into her back gave way to waves of insurmountable pleasure.

…

And when a nasal voice crackled through the speakers, asking if everything was alright, Blair sighed with relief that there were no cameras in the elevator—at the very least, none that she knew of.

Shuddering with the thought of someone _else_ watching them, Blair looked around wildly, hoping she wouldn't see a blinking light.

Unable to find one, Blair turned back to Chuck instead, whose expression was unreadable as he replied to the voice, pulling his pants up with a free hand.

Blair herself arranged her dress, until her reflection in the elevator mirrors was deemed passable. Glancing around for her La Perlas, she found them not on the ground, where she had expected them, but in the pocket of Chuck's suit.

Following her gaze, Chuck smirked, looping an arm around her waist and leaning close.

"A souvenir," he murmured against the shell of her ear, and Blair placed her palms squarely on his chest, pushing him away.

"Don't think you can just leave me, to return back to that pathetic excuse for a—"

"You and I are done, Chuck," Blair said fiercely, eyes trained on the numbers above the doors. "We've been done for four years now. You have to let me go."

"Me?" Chuck said scornfully. "Was that not you, moaning my name as If fucked you in this very elevator?"

Blair whipped around, her expression wild, mahogany curls shaking with the force of her barely repressed anger.

"That was a mistake. Like everything else," she spat.

Chuck recoiled at her words, which also had the side-effect of sobering him up slightly.

But mostly, they just hurt.

"You'll pretend we never happened," Chuck told her forebodingly. "But we both know it's just a matter of time till you come crawling—"

His sentence was cut off by a resounding slap, and the skin of his left cheek turned red, as did her right palm.

The invisible current that passed through them, the aftermath of a single movement, was all that it took.

Neither knew who had made the first move, who had initiated the almost violent, bruising kiss, only that when the elevator doors opened moments after, only the doorman had been witness to their indecency.

…

"What took you so long?"

Blair glanced at the clock, which stated that she had been gone not twenty minutes. In the world of the Upper East Side, a missing hostess was akin to social suicide—but when Blair turned to face her fiancé, frozen smile in place, she found that she didn't care.

"Chuck needed an escort into a cab," Blair replied simply, knowing that Devon would not have had the intelligence to watch them from the bedroom window. "I have to go make my roun—"

As she slipped past Devon, his arm shot out, capturing her elbow in a tight, bruising grasp.

"Don't lie to me, Blair," he said darkly, eyes more foreboding than Blair had ever been witness too. "I can _smell_ him on you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Blair replied primly, yanking her arm away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have guests to attend to."

"Guests you just ignored to consort with your inebriated ex-boyfriend," Devon remarked coolly.

"I was simply helping an old friend," Blair defended, lifting her chin imperiously. "What are you insinuating exactly?"

A flash of fear crossed Devon's features; fear that their impending marriage—one that would benefit him greatly—was to be canceled for a boozing, womanizing, lecherous man who seemed to have some sort of hold over Blair.

"Don't make a fool out of me, Blair," Devon warned.

"That was never my intention," Blair replied frostily, turning on her heel.

…

"Chuck."

"Serena."

"Chuck," Serena repeated, shaking her head. "What did you do last night?"

A smirk crossed his tired features, "Blair."

Serena, thrown for a moment, only wrinkled her nose. "She's engaged, Chuck."

Another smirk, "To that dimwit Wall Street clone? Not for long."

"Chuck," Serena reprimanded. "That was her engagement party last night. You don't mean to say—"

"You shouldn't have left the invitation out," Chuck countered, drawing the silk sheets up to shield the sunshine streaming through the windows.

"You have to let her go," Serena said, her tone almost pitying. "She's getting married in a few months, Chuck."

"It wouldn't matter in the least," was the only reply Serena heard before she sighed, having found the folder she had come to pick up.

"It would, Chuck. This isn't healthy."

Closing the drawer she had been rummaging through, Serena caught a glimpse of a familiar substance, encased in a box of amber glass.

No, she thought sadly, closing the drawer. None of this was healthy.

But this was Chuck and Blair after all.

…

"Excuse me?" Chuck looked at the boy incredulously as he stole one last glance in the mirror, ensuring that he looked the part of the ever-impeccable Chuck Bass, CEO of Bass Industries.

"Five thousand," the boy said, and Chuck's eyes ran over the boy's tattered runners and frayed jeans. His jacket, well worn and looking as though it had some sort of important significance with its security logo, tipped off Chuck to the fact that this boy probably _was_ the night-shift worker in the surveillance room of Blair's building.

"Five thousand?" Chuck stifled a laugh. To him, it was a new suit, or a Cartier watch. To Blair, a few pairs of Louboutins or a necklace from van Cleef. To this blue-collar worker, it was the world.

"This is the only copy?" Chuck asked, nodding towards the small black flash drive.

"The only one," the boy affirmed.

Chuck sighed, trudging back to his bedroom and opening the safe, the neat stacks of cash greeted him, but as he removed a stack, his fingers brushed over something different.

He closed the safe quickly, before unwelcome thoughts could invade his mind.

"Five thousand," Chuck said, tossing the pile at the boy, who scrambled to catch it. The flash drive was left on the table as the boy exited, his expression gleeful.

For a moment, Chuck considered watching the video—the boy had only shown him a short, five-second clip before blushing and turning it off—but he recalled the velvet box his fingers had brushed over in the safe.

And a new idea was born.

…

"Blair," Eleanor cautioned, her tone forcibly light as Blair reached for another pistachio tart. "I understand your stress over the wedding, but overeating will not do you any favors in your wedding dress."

Tensing slightly, Blair only returned the pistachio tart to the plate, forcing a placid smile at her mother.

"Now," Eleanor turned yet another page, and Blair scanned the floral arrangements depicted, wrinkling her nose, "we must choose an arrangement by the end of the week. I'm partial to the lilies and orchids for the centerpieces, but the carnations and roses are also…"

Blair allowed her mother's voice to trail into the background as she nodded mindlessly, cringing at the thought of floral arrangements. Planning had always been her forte, but as idea after idea was added to her mother's list, Blair found herself growing weary of not only the wedding planning, but also the wedding itself.

Blair heard the telltale sound of the elevator doors opening and, grateful for a respite from Eleanor's waxing poetic about stargazer lilies.

"Excuse me," she said easily, the propriety so heavily ingrained that it had become second nature to her.

Curious, as she had not expected anyone today, Blair made her way to the foyer with a polite smile.

For a moment, she wondered—_hoped_—that it would be Chuck. Devon had left earlier that week for a conference in Chicago. To say that it wasn't a welcome relief would label her a liar. For two excruciatingly slow, painful days after their holiday engagement party, Blair had avoided Devon at all costs, even going as far to go shopping with her _assistant_, whose likeness to Little J was uncanny.

But when she rounded the corner, she found not a smirking devil in a wool peacoat, but her doorman, his expression formal.

"A package arrived for you, Ms. Waldorf," he said somberly, handing over the small, nondescript gift bag.

"Thank you, Percy," Blair said with a forced smile, for the gift bag was black, its handles tied together with a red bow, one that bore a small cream envelope.

The handwriting on the front of the envelope was familiar enough to her as she tore it off quickly, her eyes scanning the short missive.

_This time, it's not jewellery._

_-C_

Something told her the words had meaning, had significance, but as Blair reached inside the bag, stomach twisting and knotting in both fear and anticipation, she could not grasp the memory.

The small box sat in the palm of her hand, the perfect size for a pair of earrings, or even a—_no_, Blair told herself, pushing all thoughts of rings out of her head as she glanced at her own. Besides, Chuck had said it wasn't jewellery.

_This time_, she recalled, and her brow furrowed for a moment, searching through the recesses of her mind in hopes of unearthing the memory.

_What's that, our sex tape?_

Blair gasped as the memory came to the forefront of her mind, and the velvet box fell from her fingertips, landing with a soft _thump_ on the limestone floors.

Scrambling to pick up the box, Blair assured herself that there was no way. No possible way that such awful circumstances could have found their way into her impending marriage.

A sex tape would be damaging, not only to her reputation and Devon's, but also to her company as a whole.

Taking a deep breath, Blair cracked open the box, heart beating erratically, her stomach knotted so tightly she could barely breathe.

Inside, a black flash drive lay innocently, nestled amongst the black silk.

She was sure her expression was one of utter dread when she returned back to her mother.

"Blair?" Eleanor inquired, upon seeing her daughter's expression. "What's wrong?"

There were times when Eleanor's icy exterior dropped. When she understood that her daughter was not simply a flawless society princess to present to the masses, or to use as she pleased.

Blair didn't answer, only toyed with her ring, spinning it around her finger, around and around, until Eleanor placed her hand over her daughter's and said, in a cautious voice,

"You aren't thinking about breaking this engagement?" Eleanor said forebodingly, and Blair looked up, smiling frigidly.

"Of course not, mother," she placated. "I know how important this is to you. It's your company."

"Pearson Laches has promised to help me buy Janelle West's stocks. We need this, Blair. Her control of the company came as a surprise. None of the board members ever hinted that she was preparing to buy them out, to gain power of enough shares to overpower _me_."

"I know, mother," Blair said, unable to help the bored tone from seeping into her voice.

Eleanor smiled tightly, "I want you to be happy, darling."

"I am happy," Blair said, her smile frozen, like cherries trapped in an early morning frost.

…

"What the hell is this?"

Chuck looked up just in time to catch a small black object whizzing towards him, thrown by a furious Blair Waldorf, who has just emerged from the elevator.

Chuck smirked, fingers toying with the flash drive, "I warned you that it wasn't jewellery. Unless you were expecting something else in the ring box?"

"The ring—" Blair caught herself, replacing her icy expression in an instant. The word _ring_ had thrown her off guard, but not for long.

"Never mind," Blair said quickly, cutting off whatever Chuck was about to say, "I want to know where you got that, Chuck."

"Have you watched it?" Chuck asked instead, smirking wickedly as he uncapped the flash drive. "My favorite part is 2:19, you can hear—"

"Where. Did. You. Get. That." Blair demanded, her tone brooking no further teasing.

"From the night-shift surveillance worker of your building," Chuck taunted, his smirk growing wider as Blair visibly paled.

"How—When—But I—" Blair stumbled over her words, grasping for some sort of explanation, some sort of clarity in her muddled mind.

"He came to me," Chuck said with a shrug. "He recognized me, I suppose, form the papers. The poor boy only asked for five thousand—I would have happily given triple that."

"And this is the only copy?" Blair asked, her tone clipped and businesslike.

Chuck nodded. "Except for the one I saved to my laptop. Of course."

Blair walked forward, fingertips reaching for the flash drive in his hands. In hindsight, it had probably not been the wisest of ideas to throw it at him.

"The memory of your heels digging into my back was too delicious to not want to immortalize in film forever," Chuck taunted, his voice deepening into a low purr.

_Well, erase the tape._

"Delete it," Blair said firmly, palm still outstretched for the flash drive, but refusing to step any closer.

"And why would I do that?" Chuck asked, his expression one of faux incredulity. "It's even better than the girl-on-girl one Nate sent me last—"

"Delete. It." Blair seethed; finally stepping forward and plucking the flash drive from his hands.

"And if I don't?" Chuck asked, catching her wrist and stilling her movements.

"I will destroy you," Blair promised.

"That," Chuck nodded towards the flash drive, "could easily destroy _you_."

"I'm burning it," Blair decided.

Chuck laughed, and Blair suddenly realized that she had stepped closer, that they were suddenly far too close than was proper.

"And how do you expect to do that?" Chuck asked, his expression humorous.

"A match, a bowl, and it'll fade into oblivion," Blair said triumphantly, after a moment's thought. "Which is what we should be. Nothing."

"But we _aren't_ nothing," Chuck reminded her, his grasp becoming almost painful. "Even if you attempt to fool yourself otherwise."

"I'm getting married in a few months," Blair said, and Chuck wondered if it was just his imagination that he heard a note of discord in her statement.

"Don't marry him," Chuck suggested.

"I have to," Blair admitted, shaking her head. "You don't understand."

"I understand perfectly," Chuck said flatly. "It's you who doesn't understand."

"Devon won't hurt me," Blair said, lifting her chin haughtily. "He won't hurt me, and better yet, my marrying him will cement the partnership between his father and Eleanor."

"Everyone on the Upper East Side knows it's a marriage of convenience," Chuck said snidely, ignoring Blair's flinch, "and you know you don't love him."

Blair did nothing but offer a small, sad smile, neither accepting or denying the statement.

She was halfway to the elevator doors before he stopped her, removing the ring from the pocket of his pants, where he had been carrying it since removing it from its box, which had been its home for the past six years.

"No, Chuck," Blair warned, stepping towards the elevator.

"You know it's always been yours," Chuck said, ignoring her words and walking slowly towards her, a lion stalking its prey.

"I'm engaged," Blair said weakly, but the sight of the diamond, the one she had only seen once before yet was forever ingrained in her memory, made her forget about the one she was currently wearing.

"You're still mine," Chuck said, and Blair found no words to refute the statement as his lips crashed down on hers.

…

"I hate you."

Chuck looked at her, chocolate curls on alabaster skin, the silk of his sheets drawn up to shield her from his probing gaze.

"I hate you too, lover," he said darkly, his eyes dark as he leaned forward, lips brushing against hers.

Two hours later, as Chuck slumbered soundly, Blair sat in a chair opposite the bed. With the smallest of sobs, she looked at the ring that had always looked out of place on the fourth finger of her left hand.

It had been an afternoon of delicious escape, one meant to be folded between darker memories and remembered on rainy days.

Because Blair was still destined to become Blair Laches, and the ring on her hand proved that.

…

Before, when she would leave him to wake up alone in the middle of a cold bed, Chuck would proceed to drown his sorrows in scotch and illicit drugs. This time, he became all the more determined to figure out exactly _why_ Blair was marrying Devon Laches.

The engagement had come mere months after they started dating—and perhaps dating would be the wrong word. It had been for public appearances more than anything—Pearson Laches had needed his son to look more reliable, after the scandal, and Chuck had hears whispers that Waldorf Designs was in dire need of aid.

The plan was but half-formed when he exited the Empire, the brisk winter air a frigid shock to his senses. And as he slid easily into the limo, a call was placed, and help requested.

…

It was simple. So simple that Chuck had wondered how _The Post_ had not picked up on what was undoubtedly the biggest story of the year.

Then again, this was Eleanor Waldorf—and Chuck knew that to her, image was everything.

Image was why Blair was marrying Devon Laches.

As he pored over reports and earnings, Chuck noticed a steady decline in revenue—that had not surprised him.

What had surprised him was the shares bought by one Janelle West, who now owned nearly forty-five percent of the shares. He saw signs of an imminent takeover, and the underhanded way in which she had purchased the shares had been alarming.

And Chuck understood why Eleanor and Pearson Laches had forged a partnership—though why Eleanor had chosen Laches, he couldn't understand. There was no previous business relationship between them of any kind, and he was not someone Eleanor would seek help from.

Then, Chuck concluded, it must have been Pearson who had approached Eleanor. The realization made sense, but did nothing to appease the growing worry in his mind. Eleanor may have run a successful business for a little over a decade, but Chuck knew that the inner workings of the business world were a mystery to the fashion designer.

And Chuck, who had survived the cutthroat world of business by the skin of his teeth, knew exactly _how_ cruel it could be.

So for Pearson Laches to offer Eleanor Waldorf help, Chuck knew something was wrong.

He just had to figure out what it was.

…

"Every penny will be returned in full," came a voice, a deep voice that Chuck recognized all too well.

"And I can be assured that the company will be mine by July?"

The last sentence caught Chuck by surprise. The voice was unfamiliar to him, but the words were clear. And as Chuck pressed himself against the wall, deeper into the shadows, the conversation continued.

"My son is marrying the Waldorf girl," the man was saying, and Chuck knew without a doubt that it was Pearson Laches, "we have Eleanor's trust."

"And what will happen once we gain control of the company?"

"Which is why we are pushing for the wedding in April. It will solidify Eleanor's trust in me, and we should be able to make the transition smoothly."

"I daresay Thanksgiving dinners will be rather uncomfortable," the female voice was unfamiliar to Chuck, but as he caught a glimpse of her face, he knew her instantly.

Janelle West.

He had studied the file his PI had sent over, understood that Janelle West was simply a name on the documents.

Janelle West was really none other than Laurel Westmore, Eleanor's ex-assistant who had left the company bitterly a few years ago.

And when Chuck, who had taken to tailing Pearson Laches, found him meeting Laurel in a dingy Brooklyn bar, it had become all too clear.

"My son understands it's just business," Pearson was saying uncomfortably. "He knows what he has to do."

And Chuck nearly gave himself away as he gripped his tumbler of scotch so tightly he feared it would break.

Forcing himself to loosen his grip, Chuck exited his hiding spot with a covert glance over his shoulder.

…

They had been easy to track down. The holidays meant for Christmas shopping, and if Chuck knew Blair, he knew that the fourth floor of Bergdorf's was her favorite haunt.

Serena spotted him first, and she was in front of him in seconds, blocking his way towards the dressing rooms.

"I thought I told you to stay away from her," Serena whispered, glancing behind to ensure that Blair was still in the dressing room.

"And since when have I ever listened to you?" Chuck said derisively, side-stepping the blonde.

"Chuck," Serena warned. "This isn't right."

He met her cautioning gaze with a grim look of his own.

"No," he agreed. "It isn't."

And against her better judgment, Serena let him go.

…

"Waldorf," came a deep voice, and Blair whirled around, wondering where Serena had gone.

"Soon-to-be Laches," she trilled, her glare doing nothing to soften the blow of her words.

"Not after you hear what I have to say," Chuck smirked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

"Nothing I haven't heard before, I'm sure," Blair said with derision, though she remained where she was.

"Ah, but you _haven't_ heard it before," Chuck taunted.

Blair bit her lip, and knowing that her curiosity would win out over anything else, sighed.

"Spit it out, Bass."

"What do you know about Eleanor's business troubles?"

Blair gasped slightly. Eleanor's financial trouble had been covered up well, and though Blair had not been told the specifics, she had heard enough whispered conversations to put the pieces together.

"Nothing more than you," she replied honestly.

"Well I happen to know that someone named Janelle West is planning a hostile takeover," Chuck said, searching for the recognition in Blair's eyes.

"Common knowledge," Blair said with a wave of her hand, though her eyes betrayed the worry she now felt. "Is _that_ what you came here to tell me?"

"No," Chuck said, and his smirk grew wider. "I'm here to tell you that Janelle West isn't some new stranger from California attempting to buy her way into Waldorf Designs. She has an agenda."

Blair leaned forward, licking her lips as a gleam of curiosity flashed through her eyes.

"You remember Laurel Westmore?" Chuck prompted, and Blair, who wrinkled her nose at the mention of the woman, nodded. "She's masquerading as Janelle West."

He could see the flash of understanding in her eyes, and then, the innate desire to scheme.

"Thank you, Bass," Blair said, "but the situation is being rectified."

"By Pearson Laches?" Chuck challenged. "He's working with Laurel."

Blair laughed, a short, wry laugh that was pitying in its tenor.

"Desperate, are we?" Her tone was hard, the amicability between them lost. "Your information is faulty, Bass. Pearson is _helping_ my mother."

"Not according to the conversation between him and Laurel," Chuck returned.

"The situation is being taken care of," Blair said simply, retrieving her purse. "Don't complicate this, Chuck."

And when she walked away from him, not a tear was shed, not a tremor shook her.

But inside, she was crumbling.

…

The morning of Christmas Eve dawned, cold and bright as a cut diamond, and void of any excitement that had overcome her as a child.

Instead, Blair knew she would be forced to face Devon Laches that night, after nearly a week-and-a-half of respite from her fiancé, and a mere four days after Chuck had claimed his father was about to betray Eleanor.

Blair had pushed the thought aside for days, telling herself that such betrayal wasn't possible—especially between families that were about to be bound by her and Devon's marriage.

A nagging thought told her that was _exactly_ when Pearson had pushed for their engagement—because it would solidify Eleanor's trust in him.

Uneasy, Blair pushed the thoughts to the back of her mind once more, afraid that pondering on them too long would lead to revelations that, quite frankly, scared her.

…

Looking down at her barely touched meal, Blair knew that eating wasn't feasible at this point. Her stomach knotted and twisted, turning and roiling with anxiety—anxiety over what she didn't know.

Excusing herself, Blair made her way through the Laches' brownstone, towards the small courtyard at the back of the house in search of fresh air. Perhaps it would bring clarity to the situation.

Instead, Blair found herself passing the study, with its door ajar and a familiar voice floating through the air.

_Pearson_, she thought quietly, and though she had half a mind to turn back, she stayed, thankful that the thick carpets absorbed any sound from her heels.

"…having dinner with them tonight, Laurel. I can't deal with—"

Blair was even more thankful for the thick walls, which hid the sound of her gasp—and as she turned and ran back down the hallway, she found herself realizing that disclaiming Chuck had been a bad idea.

…

"Eleanor and my father are in the study," Devon explained, handing another flute of champagne to Blair.

Blair made no reply, only took the champagne, gulping it down in a manner that seemed to worry Devon.

"Darling?" a hand was placed on her shoulder, and Blair flinched away, causing Devon to frown. "Anything the matter?"

"What do you know about Laurel Westmore?" Blair blurted out, then immediately wanted to take back her words. She was usually more subtly underhanded, but ultimately, the champagne—and her nerves—bested her.

"Your mother's lunatic assistant?" Devon furrowed his brow, and Blair, whose ability to read people had not failed her yet, saw the lie immediately. "Didn't Eleanor fire her?"

"She did," Blair agreed icily. "And apparently her and your father are working together."

A flash of confusion swept across Devon's features, and beyond that, a moment of fear.

"Of course not," Devon said easily, his smile strained.

"Then why did I overhear your father talking to Laurel on the phone?" Blair challenged, and another spasm of fear crossed Devon's face.

"You must have heard wrong," he placated, "that was probably _Lauren_, my father's associate in Europe."

As Devon changed the subject quickly, Blair knew exactly what needed to be done.

…

Blair knew that Christmas day was not the best day to tell her mother. But Christmas morning was met with scones and croissants, tense smiles traded across the breakfast table, and a growing worry in Blair.

But when the note had arrived, the oddest feeling of relief washed over her. The feeling that there was someone else to depend on, someone else she actually _trusted_ overwhelmed her.

_Meet me at your mother's atelier._

_-C_

…

He was sitting in her mother's studio, reading over reports as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"How did you get in here?"

"I'm Chuck Bass," he said, without looking up.

Blair snorted, "Is there a reason you dragged me here on Christmas?"

"Is there a reason you came?" Chuck volleyed back, and Blair, simply frowned.

"Curiosity."

"You know what they say about the cat," Chuck said, and Blair, at her wit's end, nearly knocked the glass of scotch (where had he found scotch anyways? Eleanor had prohibited alcohol in the atelier) from his hand.

"I'm simply going over reports of my newest acquisition," Chuck said simply, and Blair turned stock-still.

"You bought—Janelle West—But _how?_"

Chuck smirked. "Laurel wanted to destroy Eleanor, yes. I simply gave her a better way to do it and a lot more money than she would have made from the company."

Blair visibly paled, "Chuck, what did you do?"

"Only sent her our sex tape," Chuck said smoothly, "although I did remember to save a copy for myself."

"You didn't!" Blair screeched, and this time, the scotch really was knocked from his hands, spilling across the sheaf of papers.

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "She may have gotten a copy of another video instead of our sex tape," he added belatedly.

He was on the receiving end of a slap, and then a kiss, as Blair sighed in relief, her hands clasping around his neck as his found their way around her hips, lifting her onto her mother's scotch-soaked desk.

"Not here," Blair gasped, and Chuck groaned in return.

"My limo's around the corner," she suggested slyly.

It was the first Christmas she had spent almost entirely in bed - and limo - and Blair couldn't say she regretted it.

…

_Six months later_

When the dust settles, they come out on top.

The Laches are disgraced, ruined forevermore in the eyes of Manhattan society. Devon Laches is snapped at a Vegas chapel, marrying the flight attendant that had been cause for the scandal two years prior.

Pearson and Kelly Laches bury themselves into European society, but even there, the stain is apparent.

Simply put, they are ruined.

In a surprising twist, Laurel Westmore releases what she claims to be the _Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass Sex Tape_. Instead, it is a seven-minute clip of her destroying a quarter of the Waldorf atelier when she is fired.

It is proof enough for Eleanor to sue for damages—though Chuck and Blair both knew that Eleanor's revenge came not in the form of the two hundred dollar settlement, but the sight of Laurel Westmore in handcuffs.

Through it all, they somehow managed to hang onto a thread of a relationship—though Blair has to wonder as to where the ring is. After the whirlwind, she fully expected a proposal. After all, this _was_ the same man who had attempted a proposal when they were nineteen.

And on a rainy afternoon in Venice, when sunshine peeked through the clouds and alighted on two (very naked) lovers entwined on an unmade bed, Blair Waldorf woke up and found a ring on her hand.

_Her_ ring, the one that had been waiting for her all along.

* * *

_fin_


	3. Over the River and Through the Woods

**AN: Thank you all for your lovely reviews! I'll admit, I didn't realize how time consuming a o/s a day would be (and being the procrastinator I am, I left them all till the last minute), but your reviews are motivating, inspiring, and hilarious:) Here's some adorable young CB during the holidays for you all to enjoy!  
**

**Over the River and Through the Woods was written for two of my favorite twitter-friends, _NarcissistMas_ and _itsolgatime._ Between the three of us, we've forged a friendship that's spanned three countries, planned a CB party, started up a nailpolish blog (randomnails[dot]wordpress[dot]com), and talked for hours on end about Tiffany's, CB, GG, nail polish, and just everything and anything. I love both of you so very, very much, and Merry Christmas to the both of you!**

**Thanks to bethaboo, my super-hardworking beta, who**, **despite my last-minute request, got this back to me lightning fast.**

_

* * *

"O__ver the river and through the woods _

_And straight through the barnyard gate. _

_It seems that we go so dreadfully slow; _

_It is so hard to wait."_

-Over the River and Through the Woods

* * *

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea."

Seven-year-old Blair Waldorf turned to Chuck Bass, gloved hands on her hips as he admitted his reluctance. Dressed in her favorite red coat, the one with the black buttons her father had bought in Paris, she looked especially fearsome.

"It was your idea, not mine," Blair reminded him.

"But—" Chuck bit his lip, hand curled around the thermos Blair bade him carry. She herself carried a picnic basket, which looked far too large for her, though she managed it with grace as only Blair Waldorf could. They had previously filled the basket with sandwiches and desserts, which Oliver had prepared for them with an indulgent smile.

Slipping one gloved hand into his, Blair shot him a confident smile. "I'm sure he'll love it, Chuck."

Finding himself unable to speak past the odd feeling in his chest, Chuck only nodded.

"Now," Blair frowned at her neat, even letters that spelled out an address, "where are we going anyways?"

Chuck shrugged, "I'm not sure. Father never took me to his office."

A cloud passed over Chuck's features, and Blair found an odd feeling of compassion towards this boy, who had called Blair timidly that morning with an unusual request.

"_Chuck?"__Blair rubbed her eyes sleepily as she sat up in bed, taking the phone from Dorota. "It's early."_

"_Sorry," she heard, and a trace of nervousness was apparent in his voice. Curious, Blair sat up straighter, attempting to wake up quickly._

"_I need your help," Chuck admitted, and Blair swelled with pride. Having people come to her for help had always been one of her favorite things._

"_Father's been at the office all week, and it's almost Christmas," Chuck was explaining, the nervousness becoming more apparent as he spoke, "and you were talking about how you brought a picnic to your Dad last week. I was wondering if…."_

"_Oh." Blair smiled slightly at the memory, of her hand in Dorota's as they visited her Daddy at his office. There had been lots of people there, many of whom commented on her pretty headband. And just like Eleanor had taught her, she had thanked them graciously._

"_I would love to!" Blair squealed with unnecessary enthusiasm. It was enthusiasm for a few things—holiday baking, a picnic, and a visit to Bass Industries. Blair had always had a certain sort of charm around adults. And perhaps it was due to her sweetly innocent smile, or her perfect manners and hair—but Blair had always found herself most in her element when winning over adults._

"_I don't know what to—" Chuck began sheepishly, but Blair cut him off quickly. _

"_Dorota makes the best hot chocolate. And I bet we can get Oliver to make sandwiches for us. I'll bring my picnic basket." _

_At the seriousness of Blair's voice, Chuck cracked a small smile. He knew that picnics were Blair's forte, and though he had been wary of the idea at first, he found himself warming to the idea of bringing his father a picnic lunch._

"I told Dorota we were having a picnic at your suite," Blair whispered conspiratorially, glancing around the lobby as if the Polish maid was about to jump out from behind a column and ambush the pair. "She almost didn't allow me to pack the raspberry passionfruit jam bars."

"Arthur promised he'd take us there," Chuck said confidently, though the worried set of his features betrayed his fear. "But maybe—"

Blair smiled brightly, "I'm sure your Daddy will like it, too."

Chuck didn't voice his concerns—that his father wasn't like Blair's. He had seen Blair's father before, and though Harold Waldorf wore the same Burberry suits and Charvet ties as the other UES fathers, he was _different_. There had been many times when Harold could be seen waiting outside of Constance for Blair, who would run to her father excitedly and jump into his arms, babbling about her day.

Bart had visited Chuck's school twice in the past week—but not for the same reasons as Harold had. The first time, it had been because Chuck had ruined Blair's dress and stolen her carefully chosen headband—_again_. The second time, Chuck had punched Elliot Sheere—something the headmaster had claimed as schoolyard violence. But the students knew better. Elliot had been teasing Blair for the thousandth time about her father's nickname for her, _Blair Bear._ Chuck had snapped, punching the shorter, if stockier, boy in the nose.

He had been rather proud when Elliot had run from the courtyard, hands attempting to still the flow of blood.

Blair's smile of thanks was something he couldn't quite comprehend yet, but he grinned back, a toothy, a rare front-tooth-missing grin.

"Arthur will know where to go," Chuck decided, and they set off towards the grand double doors of the lobby, hand-in-hand.

…

Glancing warily back at the two children in the back seat, Arthur considered his options. How the two had managed to escape from their nannies, he didn't know. He only knew that his job required him to drive the young Bass to-and-from school, playdates, and soccer practices.

There was _nothing_ in his job description that entailed driving two incredibly bossy seven year-olds around Manhattan. Seven year-olds who were now having a heated discussion over the picnic basket between them.

"—won't miss it if we have just one," Chuck was saying, his voice plaintive.

"No!" Blair cried, slapping Chuck's hand away as he tried to open the picnic basket once more. "Not until we get to your Daddy's office."

"But it's so far away," Chuck pouted, then turned towards Arthur.

"How long till we're at Bass Industries?" Chuck inquired, with the same commanding tone that he had seen his father use countless times.

"Another twenty minutes," Arthur called back nervously. Bart's instructions to follow Chuck's—or his nanny's—orders had been explicit, and he needed the job. With a weary sigh, he continued on to Bass Industries, hoping for the best.

…

"Are we almost there?" An impatient Chuck inquired—or rather, _whined_—from his place by Blair.

"Chuck!" Blair reprimanded, then turned to Arthur with a sweet smile.

"Mr. Dunsmuir," she said politely, with manners befitting one ten years her senior, "how long till we arrive at Bass Industries?"

The childish voice threw him off when coupled with the perfect articulation, but Arthur had long since grown to realize that the UES was truly a world of its own.

"Traffic is rather bad, miss," Arthur said with an apologetic smile. Indeed, New York's Financial District was crowded as always, though the holiday season meant for a surplus of cars—and traffic. "It's only a few blocks down, but with this gridlock—"

"We can walk!" Blair announced, shrugging back into her red coat. Arthur looked back, alarmed. To allow two seven-year-olds, no matter how mature, loose into New York was begging for a lawsuit.

"You can't possibly—"

"I can _walk_ faster," Chuck declared, and he too buttoned up his coat. Between them, they managed to carry the thermos and picnic basket, all while Arthur sputtered from his place at the wheel.

"Mr. Bass! Miss Waldorf! You can't—"

"Don't worry," came Blair's voice, "I know where I am. Daddy took me to his office once, I know my way around."

"Come on, Blair!" Chuck said, opening the door. Arthur watched in abject fear as the two exited the car, and onto the busy sidewalk. Within moments, the door had been closed with a quiet _thump_, and the two disappeared into the hustle & bustle of the New York crowd.

Swearing under his breath, Arthur searched for an empty space—impossible at this hour—or perhaps an alley where he could park the limo.

He had just sent two seven-year-olds into the midst of a busy New York street with only a thermos and picnic basket.

Sweating profusely, Arthur managed to find an underground parking lot, all while silently praying that he would merely lose his job, and not his entire livelihood.

…

For a moment, Chuck lost Blair amongst the throngs of people, and he had spun around, looking for the flash of red.

"Chuck!" He heard, and he saw that Blair had been shuffled along, farther down the block. Rushing towards her while managing the basket as best he could, the two eventually managed to extract themselves from the crowd, ducking into the entryway of an upscale coffeeshop.

"Do you have the picnic basket?" Blair asked, breathless. The cold had turned her cheeks rather pink, and her eyes were wide as she took in the buildings around them.

Chuck nodded, pointing towards the basket he had set at his feet.

"Where do we go now?" he asked timidly, and for the first time, Blair bit her lip, looking apprehensive.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, glancing around at their unfamiliar surroundings. "This doesn't look like Daddy's office."

"Arthur said Bass Industries was close," Chuck reminded her, and Blair nodded in confirmation.

"We could try going down the street," Blair suggested, holding out her hand towards Chuck again.

"I know what Bass Industries looks like," Chuck told her proudly. "I saw a picture of father in front of the office. It's big."

"There's a lot of big buildings," Blair remarked with a frown, taking in the numerous buildings around them, none of which had less than ten floors.

"It's _really_ big," Chuck explained, opening his arms wide, as if to demonstrate exactly how large the building was. "And there are glass doors, and it says Bass Industries."

"Then we can find it," Blair said, smiling happily. She picked up the thermos and handed the picnic basket to Chuck. "But we better get going. Dorota will worry."

The two set off down the street, a striking pair, what with Blair's red coat and black Mary Janes, and Chuck's mini wool peacoat and red scarf. Passerby turned to look at the pair, not so much for their sartorial choices, but their lack of guardians.

Chuck and Blair, however, had grown up independently, and as they ventured down the street, they saw no wrong in their situation.

But being seven, and smartly dressed to boot, meant that it was only a matter of time till they caught the attention of certain people, who pointed at the two children, recognizing them from prominent New York families.

And just as they rushed forward, slipping between other passerby as best they could, Arthur appeared from nowhere, barreling towards the children.

"Miss Waldorf! Mr. Bass!" they heard, and bitterly, they shrunk back into the shadows, eyes following the portly driver as he caught up with the pair.

The two looked at him, eyes innocently wide as he held onto their shoulders, red-faced and panting.

"Are you alright, Mr. Dunsmuir?" Blair asked, polite as ever. Arthur wheezed his assent, and Chuck frowned at him.

"Why were you running?" Chuck inquired, his little brow furrowed, and Arthur knew that the two had absolutely no concept of danger. Sure, they had been told by their nannies not to go with strangers and the like, but their sheltered upbringing had also meant they were oblivious to danger.

"Let's get you to Bass Industries," Arthur rasped instead, still trying to catch his breath.

Arthur took the two by the hand, but Chuck, who didn't seem to be content with holding Arthur's hand, moved to Blair's side, taking her other hand.

And Arthur watched the two, who had no clue of the danger they had just evaded, chatting merrily and exchanging smiles and smirks, he smiled himself.

There was just _something_ about the way they acted around each other, the childlike innocence that permeated their every conversation, that, combined with their oddly devious natures, made him smile.

…

"We're here!" Chuck announced, as if he had been leading them along the entire time. He recognized the building from the pictures he had seen of his father, severe and imposing in front of a tall, impressive building.

"Not quite," Arthur replied, ushering the children into the lobby. "We need to get to your father's office. Are you sure he's expecting you?"

Both children turned to him guiltily, and Arthur sighed, his suspicions confirmed.

"No matter," he said briskly, turning to the receptionist, who wore a look of utter bafflement, "I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to see you."

"Excuse me," the receptionist said anxiously, as if the sight of children unnerved her, "but children are not—"

"This is Charles Bass," Arthur interrupted promptly, and the receptionist's eyes widened, though her smile remained frozen in place.

"The elevators are over there," she nodded towards a bank of elevators with a polite smile, "Mr. Bass' office is on the twenty-seventh floor."

They nodded, continuing on their way, Blair tossing out a polite, "Merry Christmas!" as she swung the thermos in her hands.

On the elevator ride, Chuck remained oddly silent, twisting and fiddling with his scarf and gloves in his small hands. Blair, noting his silence, covered his hand with her own, giving him a reassuring smile.

When the elevator doors opened, and the two filed out, they were greeted by another receptionist, who, having received the call from the lobby receptionist, greeted them with more grace.

"I'm afraid Mr. Bass is in a meeting," she said timidly, after taking Chuck and Blair's coats, "but I'm sure he'd be more than happy to cancel his lunch plans. Your daddy is a very important man," she added to Chuck, who looked at her blankly as she led them into Bart's office.

"I know," he replied haughtily, and the receptionist shrunk back, slightly offended.

"Chuck," Blair chided quietly, remembering Eleanor's lessons on propriety.

"He won't want to see me," Chuck responded dejectedly, climbing into a leather armchair, his feet nearly a foot from the ground.

"But he's your Daddy," Blair reminded him gently, and Chuck shook his head.

"He's not like your father, Blair," Chuck said, frowning as he tried to find the right words. "He never makes cookies with me like your father does. He doesn't take me to Central Park. He's never at our school plays and—"

"That doesn't mean he doesn't love you," Blair said quickly. "Just because he isn't around all the time doesn't mean he doesn't love you. That's what my daddy told me. Even if him and mother leave me for a long time, he said he still loves me."

"He's never around on my birthday," Chuck said, remembering the elaborate presents and gorgeous cakes. "Or on Christmas."

Blair frowned, wondering where a parent could be on their son's birthday—or any holiday, for that matter. "Maybe," Blair paused, looking thoughtfully out the floor-to-ceiling windows, "maybe he's got another job. Maybe," and here, Blair's eyes lit up, as her imagination ran wild, as it was prone to doing, "your daddy helps Santa during Christmas. He helps him deliver all the toys, and _that_'s why he can't be around. He makes sure you get extra-special toys, though."

Chuck watched Blair as she continued her theory, her eyes sparkling, her face animated. And he couldn't help but be drawn into her story, which she weaved so easily from thin air.

"Charles?" A booming voice interrupted them, and they both turned to see Bart, walking towards them, his expression displeased.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bass," Blair said politely, smoothing out the creases in her cream dress. Bart looked at her in surprise, as if he hadn't realized that she was there as well. A flicker of recognition crossed his features, and he looked between the two, trying to understand if—

"Father," Chuck said stiffly, cutting off his train of thought.

"Chuck wanted to bring you a picnic," Blair explained quickly, looking from father to son, an expression of confusion clear on her small features. "And he asked me to help."

A look of surprise crossed Bart's features, and Chuck looked up at him with a hopeful smile.

"I'm sorry, Chuck, Blair."

And at those words, Chuck's smile instantly reverted to a frown, and he shot Blair a look, as if to say, _'Told you so'._

"I have a business lunch with important associates, and I don't have time for—"

Before Bart could finish his sentence, Chuck had hopped off the couch, striding towards the door without another look back. Blair rushed after him immediately, but upon reaching the door, turned back, her expression one of childish anger.

"Mr. Bass," she began in a tone that he had never heard from a seven-year-old before, "Chuck really wanted to spend time with you. He asked me to bring Dorota's hot chocolate and raspberry passionfruit jam bars because he _knows_ they're your favorite. And we got Oliver to make sandwiches, too."

The look of shock on Bart's face was a rarity, one that Blair herself had never seen before.

"You're lucky to have someone like Chuck," Blair said with finality, and she walked down the hallway with more confidence than a twenty-seven year old intern after telling off Bart Bass.

…

"We can go to Central Park," Blair suggested quietly, as Arthur looked at the pair. Chuck was sitting, looking stonily out the window, and Blair, bless her, was attempting to cheer him up.

"It's too cold," Chuck said, his tone brooking no argument.

"Then my place?" Blair suggested. "We can have Dorota warm everything up."

Blair looked at him hopefully, and Chuck sighed. "I don't think I want to do this picnic anymore."

"But—"

Chuck turned to the window, and Blair to hers, and Arthur looked at the two, a small, sad smile on his face.

…

"Arthur," Chuck said, his voice startlingly authoritative for a seven year-old, "why are we here?"

"Miss Waldorf wanted to go to Central Park," Arthur said, not a trace of nervousness in his voice as Blair shot him a grateful smile.

"But I—"

"Come on, Chuck!" Blair said excitedly. "The sandwiches are a bit cold, but we can still have the hot chocolate!"

"I don't want to," Chuck retorted, sitting back and crossing his arms.

"We're not leaving until we have our picnic," Blair instructed, narrowing her eyes. "Right, Arthur?"

"Yes," Arthur agreed, and the two looked at Chuck, who frowned at them both.

"It's cold outside," he argued, and Blair shrugged.

"We have a blanket we can sit on. And we're both wearing coats," she declared.

Chuck looked from Blair, who, determined as she was, would eventually get her way. It seemed she had pulled Arthur over to her side as well, and as Chuck opened the door with a sigh, the two of them exchanged grins.

…

It had been an unseasonably warm Christmas, but there was still traces of snow and frost as they walked through the Park, ultimately deciding on a bench instead of the sodden ground.

Blair regaled Chuck with tales of Christmas Eve dinners and Christmas mornings, her voice animated as she nodded emphatically, recounting tales of laughter, family, and things that made her frown in slight confusion while Arthur chuckled in the background.

The hot chocolate was grown cold since, and with a five dollar bill found in her purse, Blair had persuaded Arthur to buy them hot chocolates from a nearby stand. While he jogged off quickly, keeping one eye on the pair, Chuck turned to Blair, wearing the smallest of smiles.

"Thanks, Blair," he said shyly, and Blair smiled at him, a large, genuine smile that displayed two missing teeth—teeth she had hoped would grow in before Christmas.

"I told you we'd have fun," she said knowingly, then, spotting a figure in the distance, her smile grew wider.

"Chuck!" She exclaimed, pointing towards a figure in a long black wool coat and grey checkered scarf. A very familiar figure. "Look!"

Chuck turned, and Bart Bass stood feet from them, an apprehensive smile on his face.

"What are you two doing out here alone in the cold?" he asked incredulously, just as Arthur returned with the hot chocolate.

"I'm here with them, sir," Arthur said, barely repressing the blame in his voice.

Bart turned to Blair, and he nodded a silent thank-you, one which Blair understood as she smiled, holding out a raspberry passionfruit jam bar to him.

"Father," Chuck said, as if he was still in shock as Bart sat down next to him, accepting the jam bar.

"I'm sorry for being late to the picnic," Bart apologized, then, taking a bite of his jam bar, nodded his approval. "Tell Dorota these are marvelous."

Blair smiled and nodded, and Bart looked at the two children, pink-cheeked and shivering slightly in the cold.

"What do you say we head to L'Express?" Bart suggested lightly. "I'm sure their Croque Monsieurs and the hot chocolate will be more enjoyable if we're warm."

Chuck nodded, and as he hopped off the bench, Bart held out his hand to him, and to Blair.

The three walked towards the limo, Arthur following with the picnic basket, a small, knowing smile on his face as he watched Blair lightly chastise Bart's pronunciation of _Croque Monsieur_ and heard Chuck's laughter, a rare sound, indeed.

…

"Blair?" Chuck whispered, as she stepped out of the limo, and she turned back, looking at him expectantly. Chuck grinned widely.

"That was the best Christmas picnic, _ever_."

* * *

_fin_


	4. When a Child is Born

**AN: Apologies for the delay - I'm a bit behind on updating, and I truly did mean to update once a day with this (hence the 12 days of Christmas presents). 'Twas not the best idea, especially with my holiday schedule, and am now headed on a whirlwind trip to warmer climes. But I do plan to keep updating this, and will try to catch up today. Thanks all for your especially lovely reviews, alerts, and favorites!  
**

**When A Child is Born was written for _bethaboo_, my amazing, amazing beta, twitter-friend, and the B to my S. Not only do we dutifully watch GG together every Monday, but we also discuss the episodes at length, spin crazy theories, and sigh over Blair's shoes. 'Tis quite a friendship, and I do love her to death. Merry Christmas, B!**

**Special thanks to The Very Last Valkyrie, who beta-ed this to keep it a surprise.

* * *

**

_A silent wish sails the seven seas  
The winds of change whisper in the trees  
And the walls of doubt crumble tossed and torn  
This comes to pass, when a child is born'_

**-**When a Child is Born

* * *

_December 24__th__, 2016_

...

_7:00am_

They suggest bringing Corinne Noelle Bass home another day—or perhaps later in the afternoon. But Blair, obstinate as ever, and in dire need of preparation for Christmas Eve dinner, insists on the 8 o'clock departure.

Chuck, who is in no position to refuse anything to her, merely relents and calls their driver.

Blair frostily tells him she will get herself home, but Chuck shakes his head, telling her he will insist on this.

...

_8:00am_

Blair's bags are packed, Corinne safely nestled in her brand-new car seat, and Chuck, Chuck is left hailing a cab as Blair closes the door, nearly severing three of his fingers.

It takes Chuck, who has hailed a cab twice before in his life, nearly thirty extra minutes to return to their penthouse.

...

_9:00am_

He finds her in Corinne's nursery, the nursery she had thrown herself into decorating when she had found out Corinne's gender.

Blair is sitting in the rocking chair, the one she had painstakingly commissioned to match the rest of the furniture. She pays him no notice when he entered, absolutely enraptured by the tiny bundle in her arms.

His daughter, his seven pound eleven ounces of baby girl, is so tiny. So, so, so, tiny. Smaller than his briefcase. Slightly bigger than his Ferragamo loafers.

She is beautiful, he knows. Though Chuck had first seen his daughter through a glass window, he knows she is beautiful.

He hadn't been present for the birth. Only knew that there were complications, that Blair had lost a lot of blood. That little Corinne had soldiered through. That Blair hadn't had the same luck, but pulled through with some unknown miracle.

Hearing that the birth had not gone particularly well had been almost as bad as if he were actually _there_.

And so, Chuck Bass saw his daughter up close for the very first time, four days after her birth.

Corinne Noelle had her father's dark hair, barely a shade darker than her mother's, but the rest of her features belonged entirely to Blair.

Small, puckering rosebud lips and a delicate, slightly upturned nose were Blair, through and through.

Chuck could not tell you the color of his daughter's eyes, because he had yet to see her open them.

"Blair," he tries, his voice yearning and apology all wrapped up into one, and she pays him no attention.

Blair is simply staring at the face of her daughter, as if memorizing it, the curve of her nose, the exact rosy shade of her lips.

Chuck doesn't blame her. It is exactly what he would do too—and it is exactly what he does, sitting beside them on the carpet and simply staring at Corinne.

...

_10:00am_

His left foot has fallen asleep, but he doesn't dare move. The silence between them grows thicker with each passing moment—but neither mind. They are simply content to sit and stare at their daughter.

But then Blair wrenches her gaze from Corinne long enough to glance at the butterfly-shaped clock on the nightstand.

Sighing, Blair stands up, and Chuck is up immediately as well, attempting to offer assistance as best he can.

Blair merely turns her back on him, setting their daughter gently into the crib.

Chuck has to keep reminding himself that Corinne is _their_ daughter—not just hers.

Because at times, it most definitely felt like the latter.

...

_11:00am_

"Blair, please."

He catches her off guard, this time. She is unpacking slowly, lethargically, as if each garment weighed heavily on her dainty hands. Chuck can see the lines of fresh fatigue, the stress, and he worries.

He knows he has no right to worry. It has been a week and a half since he left, telling Blair that the crisis in Denmark couldn't wait. That it was too important to leave to his subordinates.

Blair, the nine-month pregnant Blair, had thrown a plate at his head.

"I don't want to talk," she tells him, and her voice holds no resentment, only exhaustion.

"We should talk," he counters, and a glimmer of anger shines through in Blair's eyes.

"We're past talking," she reminds him, and she walks away without another backwards glance.

Their penthouse is large enough—spanning three floors and with its own private courtyard—that it is far too easy to avoid one another.

...

_12:00pm_

She is curled into a ball, knees tucked under her chin as she gazes thoughtfully out the windows, eyes not seeing, mind blank as a slate.

"Your favorites," Chucks says, and hands her the tray he had prepared.

"I'm not hungry," Blair replies, not glancing at the tray.

"You just gave birth," Chuck points out.

"Four days ago," Blair reminds him, not unkindly. "Just because you didn't arrive at the hospital until two days ago—"

"You know I tried my best, but the snow—"

"You shouldn't have been there in the first place!" Blair explodes, and every pent-up emotion, every hidden tear, falls at his feet, in the form of a tearful Blair, throwing her hands up in frustration and dealing biting words at him as easily as poker dealers deal aces and nines, kings and queens.

"I told you—" Chuck begins, but he knows his argument is futile.

"You knew I was pregnant," Blair hisses, and the guilt threatens to consume him. "You've known I was pregnant for nine months, and yet you bolt when her due date approaches. I checked with Ryan, Chuck. They could have resolved Denmark without your help. This had nothing to do with Bass Industries. It has to do with you, running from your fears. You know," at this, Blair takes a breath, "I thought you'd changed. When I married you, I didn't realize I was marrying the same insecure seventeen-year-old boy who ran from the first sign of affection."

Her tirade over, Blair's breasts heave, her cheeks are tinged pink with exertion, and the fury in her eyes is palpable.

"I'm sorry," Chuck begins, but Blair's expression tells him that this time, '_Sorry_' simply won't cut it.

She walks away from him as easily as he walked away from their family.

...

_1:00pm_

Corinne is crying. The wailing, high-pitched cry reverberates through his ears, and breaks his heart.

There is nothing he can do, on the other side of a locked door.

...

_2:00pm_

Corinne stops crying, and Chuck can hear the weary sigh of tired relief. They are supposed to be doing this _together_, he thinks.

But he knows Blair is not at fault here—because somehow, every blip in their relationship could be traced back to him.

...

_3:00pm_

The silence on the other side of the door is alarming. Gone are Corinne's cries. Gone is Blair's soft, sweet voice singing a melody he can't quite make out.

He doesn't know if he should knock—would that wake Corinne? So he stands there, hands poised to knock, expression unsure.

...

_4:00pm_

He's still unsure when Blair finally opens the door, looking at him in confusion.

"I fell asleep," she says, by way of an explanation, and slips past him, leaving behind the faint, lingering scent of her perfume, and the destruction of his heart.

...

_5:00pm_

He has been sitting beside Corinne's bassinet, chair pulled up to the pink-and-white lace, eyes trained on his daughter's sleeping face.

He could look at her forever, he thinks.

And yet, it will always remain. The blame in Blair's eyes when he finally appeared at the hospital, two days too late.

It was wrong to leave so far into her pregnancy, that he knows. And furthermore, the crisis in Denmark could have just as easily been handled by one of his subordinates.

But when the call had come in, and Ryan had assured him that he need not go, especially with Blair pregnant, he found his escape.

Chuck has known, all along, that he is a coward—this only solidifies it. When the eight-month mark had hit, Chuck had panicked. The doctor reported increasing worry over Blair's health, over Blair's heart, over the baby's health, until everything became a blur of doctor's orders and barely restrained worry.

Until everything came together in one horrifying, frightening conclusion. That having this baby could kill Blair.

Chuck had panicked, broken out in cold sweats and paced rooms at four in the morning.

The trip to Denmark consisted of him, a bottle of scotch, and Serena's name on the screen.

...

_6:00pm_

"I'm sorry."

She's eating a salad, perched on a stool, staring into space.

He really wishes she'd stop eating salads.

"I know," she replies simply, still refusing to stare at him.

"You haven't forgiven me," he states. And Blair shakes her head.

"Not yet."

...

_7:00pm_

Corinne's awake again, and Blair's in the nursing her, Chuck watching from the doorway.

"You're good with her," he says, and Blair doesn't deign to look at him.

"I have to be," she replies frostily. "I was prepared to take her home on my own."

"Blair—"

"Please," she begs, eyes closing and opening, still looking anywhere but at him. "Don't do this."

"I don't want—"

"Not now, Chuck," Blair hisses, as Corinne begins wailing once more.

He sighs and leaves the room.

...

_8:00pm_

She's wearing red. A red empire-waisted dress, and black heels—the former because she just gave birth, the latter despite the fact she just gave birth.

He always loved her in red.

"Red bowtie," she reminds him, tossing the silk at him. And he smiles slightly, because Blair may be angry, but she's still insisting they match.

"Dorota's coming over to take care of Corinne," Blair says, affixing pearls to her ears. "But I want to be back at ten."

"I don't want to leave at all," Chuck murmurs, and Blair smiles sadly.

"Neither do I."

It is the first time she has said anything without a modicum of hostility.

"But we have to go," he finishes for her, and Blair nods.

...

_9:00pm_

Blair has snuck away from dinner six times already, to call Dorota, no doubt.

He tries to follow her the first time—he didn't make the mistake for the next five.

"How is she?" He whispers, when Blair returns, all cheery smiles and forced happiness. There are congratulations all around, and Blair revels in the attention—but Chuck knows she misses Corinne.

"Fine," she whispers back, and Chuck knows not to press for any more information.

"Ten?" he asks.

"Ten," she affirms.

He begins counting down the minutes.

...

_10:00pm_

Blair is through the door and up the stairs before him, heels in her hand, bare feet against cold marble.

Chuck hangs back in the doorway of Corinne's nursery, watching as Blair takes their daughter from her crib and thanks Dorota.

Dorota passes him on her way out, and the look she gives him is halfway between pity and anger.

"Why is she up?" he asks, recalling the words he had read on the plane, in the book he had bought in secret. "She's supposed to be sleeping a lot."

Blair shrugs, "Maybe she wanted to see us."

The way she says _us_ instead of _me_, encourages him to go over to the both of them, and it is further encouragement when she wraps a free arm around his back, and he turns towards the both of them, holding them close.

...

_11:00pm_

She still sits in front of her vanity, brushing her hair, eyes unfocused, hand moving methodically through her chocolate tresses.

"I'll sleep in the guest bedroom tonight," she says when she spots him over her shoulder.

He knows it is futile to argue against her.

"No," he shakes his head. "I'll sleep there. You can sleep here."

Blair nods, and points to the mound of baby monitors they had bought previously.

"You cant take one with you," she says. "But I'll take care of Corinne tonight."

"We can take turns?" he nearly begs.

Blair shakes her head no, "Not tonight. You can tomorrow."

She heads to the bathroom, and he knows it is his cue to leave.

...

_December 25, 2016_

...

_12:00am_

He can't sleep.

He's had three cups of sleepytime tea—Dorota had gotten him hooked when he had a bout of insomnia.

The carpet in the guest bedroom must be worn from his pacing, he thinks.

And he regrets ever stepping foot on that jet.

...

_1:00am_

The pacing has stopped. The tea has been replaced by a tumbler of scotch.

He hopes Blair doesn't figure it out.

He looks at his phone, and he finally remembers.

It's Christmas.

...

_2:00am_

There are forty-six presents under the tree, and he adds one more. A jewellery box, bought in Denmark to show that he still cares.

...

_3:00am_

Corinne is crying, and he can hear Blair singing quietly over the baby monitor.

Chuck knows she is exhausted—can hear it in the timbre of her voice and can visualize it in his mind.

It takes all his willpower not to run to Corinne's nursery.

...

_4:00am_

Sleep finally finds him, and when his eyes close, he is anything but contented.

...

_5:00am_

Chuck wakes suddenly, eyes popping open, covered in a cold sweat.

He doesn't remember the dream, but try as he may, he can't go back to sleep.

...

_6:00am_

Corinne is crying again. His fingernails dig into his palms and he closes his eyes tightly.

...

_7:00am_

Corinne is asleep—Blair is, as well.

Chuck finally musters the courage to tiptoe past _their_ bedroom and see his daughter.

She starts to cry when he opens the door.

...

_8:00am_

Blair is angry, cutting fruit with a ferocity he knows is unmatched.

"Merry Christmas," he offers timidly, and her heated movements still.

"Merry Christmas," she says quietly, and then takes her plate and walks away.

...

_9:00am_

"We should go to my mother's brunch," she says with a sigh, spotting him over her shoulder.

"We'll see her tonight," he argues.

Blair shakes her head, bites her lip, and wars with herself.

"Tonight," she agrees in relief.

...

_10:00am_

"You haven't opened your presents," Chuck notes, in the doorway of Corinne's nursery once more.

Blair shrugs, "I don't need them."

"Me neither," Chuck says under his breath, and their gazes meet over the head of their daughter. As cheesy as it sounds, he knows she is the best present yet.

"What?" she asks in irritation, when Chuck continues to stare at them.

"You're beautiful," he tells her, and Blair doesn't respond. "She's beautiful," he adds.

"She is," Blair agrees proudly.

...

_11:00am_

Corinne is asleep, and he finds Blair sipping tea in front of their Christmas tree, a seventeen-foot monster decorated to perfection.

He walks right past her and to the tree.

"I don't want—"

He hands her the box wordlessly, and Blair looks at him exasperatedly before opening the box.

Inside, are two charms, one larger than the other. The largest, is a rose gold _B_, a diamond and enamel butterfly perched on the initial. The smaller one is a matching _C_, with the same butterfly.

"The entire time I was there," Chuck says quietly, "I was wishing I was here."

"Why weren't you?" Blair asks, accusation clear in her tone.

"I was afraid," he admits, and Blair shakes her head.

"You always run."

"I know."

"What were you afraid of?"

Chuck sighs, and he sits across from her, chin in hands.

"Losing you. Hating Corinne. Losing Corinne. Losing the both of you. Hating myself."

The words are staccato, to prevent against his voice cracking, and each one endears him to Blair even more.

"You didn't lose me," she begins, then continues on to correct each statement. "And we didn't lose Corinne either. As for the last one…"

She lets her words trail off, and Chuck wonders if she hates him too.

"I could never hate you," she admits, "and you could never hate something that was a part of you and me."

"No," Chuck agrees, "I couldn't."

Blair sighs, then picks up the box thoughtfully, "Thank you, Chuck. It's perfect."

...

_12:00pm_

Corinne is crying again, but when Blair looks up at him from her meager lunch, she smiles.

"Do you want to get her?"

He's up and tripping over his seat before she can even finish her sentence.

And her laughter follows him up the stairs as he runs to his daughter.

...

_1:00pm_

When Blair wanders into the nursery, wondering what had taken him so long, she finds him in the rocking chair, fast asleep with their daughter in his arms.

It is precious and dear, and near brings tears to her eyes as she sits down, content with watching her husband and daughter.

She will forgive him, she knows. If anything, she has already forgiven him. She understands his fear better than anyone else—knows that Chuck has feared hating his own child because of his own father's wrath.

And as Chuck snores lightly and Corinne gurgles lightly in her sleep, Blair draws her knees to her chest and smiles happily.

...

_2:00pm_

Corinne wakes up with a wail, and Chuck does so as well—his eyes unfocused and half-scared.

Blair takes Corinne with a smile, and Chuck looks at the clock with a frown.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Two hours," Blair says, with a small laugh.

"I didn't sleep well last night," he hurries to explain, and a thousand scenarios run through his head, of him dropping his daughter in his sleep, of him accidentally smothering her, of him—

"Nothing happened," Blair assures him, small hand over his. "And if anything, it was precious. I can't wait to show everyone the picture tonight."

Chuck's eyes bug out in fear, and Blair laughs melodically.

"You wouldn't," he breathes.

"I would," Blair says, mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I want everyone to know what a perfect father you are. Such a softie, Bass."

"I am not," he retorts immediately, but the words _perfect_ and _father_ have a strange effect on him.

Namely, it feels like champagne spreading through his veins and his heart doing an odd expanding thing.

...

_3:00pm_

"We should open the rest of the presents," Blair decides, sitting next to him on the couch.

"I've never been one to feel guilty," Chuck begins, and off Blair's raised eyebrow, "but we really do have everything."

Blair leans into him, and the reaction is automatic, Chuck wrapping an arm around her waist.

"We've always been selfish people," Blair agrees, then looks at the presents below the tree, shiny baubles and velvet shoes, things she would easily give up for her daughter.

"We should do something," Chuck says, and Blair knows exactly what he means.

"Beyond throwing another benefit?" She asks playfully.

Chuck shrugs. "I'm not sure what. But I want to—"

"I know, Bass," Blair says with a smile.

...

_4:00pm_

"Are we baking the pie?" Chuck asks Blair sometime later, and she gives him a look that says, _Of course, what were you expecting_?

"I'll make the crust—" she begins.

"And I'll make the filling," he finishes.

They spend the next hour in easy conversation, their routine set, their movements coordinated due to years of holiday pie-making.

In short, it is perfect.

...

_5:00pm_

"I don't want to go," Blair admits.

"Let's not," Chuck suggests.

Blair shakes her head, "My mother would kill us."

Chuck shakes his head as well, "Eleanor has a soft spot for babies. We'll use Corinne as a shield."

"You're going to use our four-day-old daughter against my mother?" Blair asks in amusement.

"We'll threaten removal of babysitting rights," Chuck amends.

"She'll be thrilled," Blair says drily.

"Don't be so sure," Chuck chides. "The day before we left the hospital, she was practically begging to take her home."

"She does adore Corinne," Blair says with a wistful sigh.

"She simply wishes she was like that with you, too," Chuck counters, and Blair rolls her eyes at him.

"We should go," she sighs.

Chuck shrugs, "I would rather spend the day here."

"Me too," Blair says. "But duty calls."

...

_6:00pm_

The pie is covered in foil, Corinne is dressed in her miniature red dress and black coat, and Blair looks immaculate as ever.

Chuck takes one glance at the tree, and the still unopened presents, and calls Joseph up.

"Load them in the limo, please."

Blair looks at him in confusion at the strange request, but says nothing as Joseph does as is requested of him.

...

_7:00pm_

"We're going to be late," Blair says worriedly, glancing out the window. "Where are we anyways, Bass?"

"Women and Children's shelter of New York," Chuck says sheepishly, pointing at the sign.

"The presents—"

"Yeah," Chuck agrees, and Blair smiles.

"I love it," she declares.

...

_8:00pm_

Eleanor chastises them for being half an hour late, but Chuck and Blair share secret smiles over their daughter's head. Spending an hour handing out presents had been more rewarding than either of them had thought.

Besides, like Chuck had said, they had everything now.

...

_9:00pm_

"She's adorable, Blair," Serena coos, eyes never leaving the baby.

At barely five days old, Corinne had already captured everyone's attention, and her parents stood off to the side, grinning proudly.

"If you ever need babysitting—" Nate pipes up, but is promptly cut off by Serena.

"You can't babysit, Nate. As Corinne's godmother, I'll do it, of course."

"I'm her godfather," Nate all but whines, and Blair cuts in, smirking.

"You can both take turns in two months," she tells them.

"Why two months?" Serena asks in confusion.

"That's when the doctor said it would be safe for Blair and I to—"

"Ew!" Serena says, before Chuck can finish his sentence, clapping her hands over her ears and closing her eyes tightly.

"S," Blair says with a roll of her eyes and a smirk that matched Chuck's, "how do you think Corinne was conceived?"

Serena represses a shudder.

...

_10:00pm_

"You're leaving?" Eleanor pouts, eyes following her departing grandchild.

"It's late, mother," Blair says, and Eleanor frowns.

"Nonsense! It's only ten o'clock."

"Corinne's getting tired," Blair points out, and Eleanor leads her towards a room.

"We were going to wait," she says, opening the door, "but I think this is the perfect opportunity."

Inside, Eleanor had transformed the entire room, turning it into a nursery to rival Corinne's at home.

"We figured we were going to be babysitting three days out of the week," Eleanor admits, and Blair stifles a grin.

"It's beautiful," she declares, "but we really do need to get going."

Eleanor sighs dramatically. "It was worth a try."

Blair laughs, turning back towards the main hallway, when Eleanor calls her back.

"Blair?"

She turns, and the look on Eleanor's face is one of pride, something she is sure she has never seen before.

"You're going to be a wonderful mother," Eleanor tells her daughter. "I can see it already."

"Thank you," Blair says, voice cracking on the end of her sentence.

Eleanor hugs her daughter and granddaughter, and she knew that she had never had a better Christmas.

...

_11:00pm_

"She has a nursery all set up," Blair tells Chuck with a quiet laugh, as they watch their daughter slumber peacefully.

"Is she planning on kidnapping Corinne any time soon?" Chuck asks incredulously, as they reluctantly leave.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Blair says with a shake of her head.

"We'll have Joseph on lookout for her," Chuck suggests lightly.

"She'll probably disguise herself," Blair says thoughtfully.

"Eleanor? In disguise?"

"I wouldn't put it past her," Blair says, and they share another laugh.

They pause at the bedroom door uncertainly, and Blair only smiles encouragingly, opening the door.

And Chuck knows he is forgiven.

...

_12:00am_

"Blair?"

"Chuck?" she says sleepily, snuggling closer into his side for warmth.

"I can't promise I won't leave again," he says quietly, "because that's who I am. But I can promise I'll come back."

"Thank you," Blair murmurs against his chest.

"Merry Christmas, Blair."

"Merry Christmas, Chuck."

* * *

_fin_


	5. Une Étable est son Logement

**AN: The holiday season has come and gone, and I fell woefully behind with this. The combination of holiday stress and general lack of creativity made it quite difficult for me to update once a day. Then came a whirlwind trip and I fell short on both time and creativity. So to everyone I've promised a oneshot - I am deeply sorry. I will be finishing them, but not in time, sadly!Continued thanks for the wonderful reviews - apologies on being unable to respond to them, but I have read and loved each and every one.  
**

**Une Étable est son Logement ****was written for the fabulous _fouzia269, _the loveliest, sweetest, most amazing friend one could have. (And to top it off, she speaks French! And lives in France! And is a wonderful French tutor! Oui, j'adore cette fille.) Je t'aime, et Joyeux Noël, Fouzia! **

**Prompts were kid!ChuckandBlair and France.  
**

**Thanks, as always, to my fantastical beta bethaboo, who is an amazing friend and even more amazing source of encouragement.  
**

* * *

"_Une étable est son logement,  
Un peu de paille est sa couchette,  
Une étable est son logement,"_

-Il est Né le Divin Enfant

* * *

**Translations:**

_Il est Né le Divin Enfan_ - He is Born the Divine Child

_Une étable est son logement,_  
_ Un peu de paille est sa couchette,_  
_ Une étable est son logement,_

A stable is his lodging,  
A bit of hay is his little bed,  
A stable is his lodging,

* * *

"Thank you for this trip, Bart," Anne was saying, and Bart nodded politely, smile affixed to his face, before turning back to his phone call.

The five children in the back—Serena, Eric, Nate, Chuck, and Blair—spun listlessly in their swivel seats, playing idly with their toys as they tried their best to ignore the adult's conversation.

Bart had rented out a manor in France for the holiday season, and while it appeared that the Big Bad Bass never ceased to work, he had allowed Chuck to invite his friends—and their families.

Lily had jumped at the idea, offering to send a nanny with her children—and before Bart had even agreed, had already booked herself a ticket to St. Barts. Serena and Eric looked glum, though the former attempted to cheer up her younger brother with silly faces and horrid jokes.

Harold and Eleanor, on the other hand, had been on the opposite side of the spectrum. Harold hadn't wanted to be parted with his Blair Bear for Christmas—and Eleanor had gone along with her husband's wishes. Thus, the two now sat at the front of the plane, Harold looking listlessly out the window, Eleanor drawing on her sketchpad. Blair, in a grey dress with green bow, had sat herself beside Nate, and was now attempting to engage him in conversation.

Nate, while attempting to avoid Blair's attentions, had begun playing on his Game Boy, shooting his parents a furtive look every now and then. Anne and Howard sat near the front, talking continuously and engaging in numerous conversations—but never with each other. It was something that had begun to worry Nate, the ever-observant six-year-old of their group.

Chuck, on the other hand, was as uninterested in conversation as his father. He was content to simply sit in his seat, watching the clouds below and tracing patterns on the table.

Blair huffed for the thousandth time, and Nate paid her no attention as his eyes remained glued on the screen, his thumbs moving furiously. Blair had the determination of one years older—and the tenacity of a six-year-old.

Chuck turned towards her, looking incredibly small in the oversized white leather chair, her arms crossed and lips pouted.

"Blair," he complained, and she shot him a look.

"Am I bothering you?" she asked haughtily, and Chuck jutted out his chin arrogantly.

"Yes."

Blair frowned at him again, but said not a word as she continued to glare at him.

When Serena finally managed to tear her gaze away from her little brother, she glanced between the two, looking confused.

"Why are you guys mad at each other?" she whispered to Blair, who tossed her a cursory glance.

"We're not mad," Chuck said automatically, and Blair nodded in agreement.

Serena looked between the two of them, then, shaking the worrisome thought, smiled brightly.

"Who wants to play cards?"

Blair and Chuck groaned simultaneously, and in sharing the same views on Serena's newfound obsession with the game _Crazy Eights,_ also shared the shyest of smiles.

…

"Are we there yet?" Serena complained, Eric quiet beside her, as always. Their nanny had opted to take the limo with them, though it appeared that her services were rendered useless by Serena's constant mothering of her younger brother.

"Look out the window," an irate Blair snapped, her irritation ignited once more after Chuck had splashed _water_ onto her stockings and new shoes. She now sat beside Nate—still absorbed in his Game Boy—refusing to acknowledge Chuck.

Everyone in the car—excepting Nate, of course—turned to look out the darkened windows. The looming _Chateau de la Caillotiere_ was an imposing brick manor set on a grassy lawn, a manor so large that the six-year-olds (and one four-year-old) were sufficiently awed.

Immediately, the talk in the car turned towards the manor and its various accommodations; Blair spoke excitedly of horseback riding, though she would hardly be allowed; Serena exclaimed over the lawns covered in snow; and Chuck talked to anyone who would listen about how the pond was most likely frozen over, and they could skate on it.

The picturesque mansion was enhanced further by the snow that topped the surrounding trees, lending a Winter Wonderland feel to the place. When they exited their limos, children and adults alike were looking around them in wonder.

Even Bart had stopped talking on his phone—for the first time that day—taking in the lush scenery.

Eventually, the bitter cold seeped through their wool coats, and at Bart's suggestion, they followed him into the chateau.

The inside was equally as magnificent, decorated in antiques and rich colors, and Bart played tour guide for the briefest of moments, before inviting them to choose their rooms and disappearing on another conference call.

"I want a room by Serena!" Blair immediately exclaimed, and thus began the mad scramble for rooms.

…

Two hours later, and everyone had settled in remarkably well, with nary an argument after Eleanor and the Captain had taken charge of the situation. The children were swinging their legs as they waited patiently for their snack, promised to them by the portly cook.

Blair's expression was sullen again, though Nate had not been the cause this time. Her father had expressly forbidden her to ride the horse—it being far bigger than her own pony—and Blair had thrown one of her rare fits. Rare because hardly anything had ever been denied to her, but when Blair Waldorf was refused something she desired, she did throw _quite_ the tantrum.

"What's wrong, Blair?" Serena asked, and Nate finally looked up from his ever-present Game Boy, glancing at Blair curiously. And so, she explained the entire tale to them, stopping every now and then to insert a sigh, or angry wave of her small hands.

"I know where the stable is," Chuck piped up excitedly. "I saw it on the map."

"What map?" Blair asked in confusion, not having seen a map of any kind during their perusal of the manse.

"It was in father's office," Chuck explained. "I couldn't read it, but I saw a picture of a horse."

Blair's eyes lit up excitedly, and as the cook delivered plates of freshly baked cookies and glasses of milk, she switched seats, settling herself next to Chuck.

"Chuck," she whispered, as the others devoured their own cookies, "let's go to the stable!"

Chuck shot her a bewildered look, "But—"

"Daddy won't take me," Blair explained with a frown, forgetting to mention that her father had expressly forbid it as a whole. "Will you? Please?"

Blair's brown eyes widened, and her expression was one of pleading as Chuck frowned, weighing his options. On one hand, he couldn't _exactly_ remember where the stable was. On the other hand, dealing with an unhappy Blair usually proved difficult for all of them.

But when it came down to it, Chuck knew that it wasn't Blair's whining that would drive him to accompany her to the stable. It was the simple fact that he really just _wanted_ to.

"Okay," he agreed, and Blair grinned widely back at him.

"We'll go after our snack?" she decided, and Chuck nodded in return.

"Go where?" Serena piped up from across them, looking at the two curiously.

"Nowhere," they answered simultaneously, then shared an amused glance at Serena's expense.

…

"Chuck!" Blair snuck poked her head into his room, already dressed in her coat and boots, scarf round her neck, and knitted white hat perched on her brown curls. "Are you ready?"

"Almost," Chuck replied, standing in front of his mirror. With exacting precision, he donned a grey-and-blue scarf, before turning to Blair and grinning back.

"Let's go!" she exclaimed excitedly, and they set off down the hall, looking carefully around corners and glancing left and right at every hallway.

They knew they weren't technically _supposed_ to go out, but within their childlike minds, they were simply making a trip to visit the horse.

They set off across the lawn at a running pace, racing each other over the snow, avoiding the deeper sections. When, at last, they were far enough from the house, they turned to each other, cheeks flushed pink from both exertion and the cold, breathing heavily as they grinned.

"I won," Blair declared proudly.

"Nuh-uh!" Chuck cried, "_I _won, because I touched the tree _first_."

"That was the wrong tree!" Blair crowed happily. "I pointed to this one."

Chuck stuck out his tongue, and Blair did the same, though her mother had always frowned upon such behavior. Blair found that when she was with Chuck, inhibitions seemed to fall away (though, at six, she called them _bad things_, and not _inhibitions_.), and though Serena had always been her best friend, Blair had always had the most fun with Chuck.

At that moment, snow began to fall. Lightly, as snowflakes landed delicately on their outstretched tongues, and the two laughed gleefully, twirling and reveling in the softly falling snow.

Until Blair tripped on something, tumbling sideways into the snow, with the smallest of screams that had Chuck rushing over to her.

"Blair! Blair, are you ok?" He asked, wide-eyed.

"I think so," Blair frowned at the rock she had tripped over, blaming it for the snow that was now seeping through her stockings.

"It's darker," Chuck decided, glancing up at the already darkening sky.

Blair shivered slightly, from both the cold and the snow that now clung to her jacket. "It's cold."

"We'll run," Chuck decided, grabbing Blair's hand. "I don't want to go back yet."

"Me neither," Blair agreed with a smile.

…

An hour or so later, after walking in what seemed like endless circles, the two finally found themselves in front of the red stable, with the distinctive smell of hay and snow covering its roof.

Blair laughed gleefully, entering through the side door while Chuck hung back, glancing at the rapidly darkening sky.

Frowning, he walked inside to see Blair standing in the middle of the stable, looking around in uncertainty.

"Where's the horse?" Blair asked, confusion evident as ran from box stall to box stall, peeking inside in search for the horse.

Chuck joined her in her search, and when they had checked every nook, corner, and cranny of the stable, turned to each other with frowns.

"She's not here," Blair said with a pout, flopping down onto a pile of hay, momentarily forgetting about propriety. They were in a _barn_ after all.

"I'm sorry," Chuck offered, and Blair shot him a smile.

"We can visit my pony," she decided, "when we get back to New York."

"You have a pony?" Chuck asked, eyes wide. "Does she live with you?"

"No!" Blair cried, proceeding to laugh at his statement. "She lives in her own stable. It's far away from home, though."

"Where?" Chuck looked at her curiously the novel concept of someone _owning_ a pony interesting him to no end.

Blair shrugged. "Far. I don't know, exactly."

"I'd like to visit her," Chuck decided, flopping down beside Blair on the bale of hay. "What's she like?"

"Grey," Blair said dreamily, recalling summers with her pony, her father teaching her to ride. "Her name is _"

"That's a silly name," Chuck retorted, and Blair looked at him for a moment, sticking out her tongue. Chuck, in return, stuck out his tongue and yanked on one of her curls.

"Hey!" Blair slapped his hand away, somehow managing to scratch his wrist at the same time. "That hurt."

"Baby!" Chuck teased, pulling on one of Blair's curls again gleefully, before jumping up and running away.

Blair jumped up as well, small hands clenched, eyes furious as she chased him, forgetting, in her haste, that the small heel on her boots occasionally caused her to trip.

This was one of those occasions, as Blair flew forward, catching herself before falling completely on her face. Her right hand went relatively unscathed, but her left hand had the misfortune to land on a rough patch, scraping the heel of her hand.

"Blair?" Chuck poked his head out from another stall, eyes wide as he took in her current predicament.

"Are you okay?" he asked, approaching her slowly, fear written on his features.

Blair shook her head tearfully, managing to make her way to her feet, but holding her left hand gingerly, wrinkling her nose at the blood.

"This was your fault!" she accused, tears beginning to escape, running in rivulets down her cheeks.

"It was not!" Chuck retorted.

"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't pulled my hair, then run away," Blair pointed out, still frowning at her scraped hand.

"It's not that bad," Chuck countered, edging closer to take a look at her palm.

"I want cookies," Blair said with a pout. "With milk and honey, like Dorota makes when I get sick."

"I'll get you cookies, _and_ milk and honey," Chuck promised.

"We're in a stable!" Blair retorted, wincing at the stinging pain in her palm.

"We'll go back," Chuck decided, and they made their way to the stable doors, peeking out.

The landscape had completely changed, from a welcoming, golden-hued forest blanketed in snow, to a dark, treacherous wood, menacing in every respect.

The two children looked at each other, their previous spat forgotten as they shared looks of equal fear.

"How will we get back?" Blair squeaked, eyes scanning the dark grounds.

"We can try to follow our footsteps" Chuck suggested, but even he knew the suggestion was silly. The snow had covered any trace of their footsteps, and was continuing to fall thickly, the black velvet sky filled with large, white flakes.

"We'll get lost!" Blair exclaimed, and the panic in her eyes mirrored Chuck's.

Chuck thought for a moment, and Blair, realizing that they really were stuck in the stable, turned on her heel, taking in their surroundings.

"There's some blankets over there," she said, pointing towards a small stack of fleece blankets. "And we can make beds in the—_ew_—hay."

"We're staying here?" Chuck asked in alarm, and Blair nodded.

"We have to," she reasoned. "We can't see outside."

"But—"

"Maybe someone will look for us?" Blair suggested hopefully. "We can always go back in the morning. We could have a sleepover!"

Chuck wrinkled his nose. "Sleepovers are for girls."

"That's okay," Blair said, taking Chuck by the hand, careful to use her right hand, and not her left. "I won't tell anyone!"

"Even Serena?" Chuck asked, and Blair led them towards the blankets.

"_Especially_ Serena," Blair affirmed, pouting slightly. "She can't keep a secret."

"I can keep a secret," Chuck said proudly. "I keep lots of secrets."

"Like what?" Blair asked, eyes sparkling.

Chuck shook his head. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret anymore!"

"Fine," Blair pouted, then looking at her hand, "do you have a band-aid?"

"No, sorry," Chuck mumbled, looking guiltily at her scraped hand. "I'm sorry about your hand," he offered.

Blair shrugged. "It doesn't hurt much anymore."

Chuck smiled, and Blair smiled back as they arranged the blankets in an odd sort of sleeping bag, until finally, the two fell asleep.

…

"Blair! Oh my darling, what are you—"

"Chuck!"

"Blair Bear!"

"Charles, what in the—"

They woke to a cacophony of noise, and they sat up, rubbing their eyes as the adults encircled around them.

"Blair," Harold was the first to speak, kneeling down to eye level with the two, "and Chuck. What are you two doing here?"

Before either could answer, Bart interrupted them, his voice harsher than he meant it to be.

"I suppose it was Charles' idea," Bart said, and Chuck recoiled slightly at Blair's side, "to go exploring at such a late hour."

"Actually," Blair piped up, her small voice fierce, "it was my idea."

"Your idea?" Eleanor snapped, glaring at her daughter. "What possessed you to come and sleep in a foul old _barn_?"

"She wanted to see the horse," Chuck defended, just as Blair had for him.

"The horse?" Eleanor frowned in confusion, but Harold wore an expression of understanding.

"Blair Bear, the horse is kept elsewhere in the winter," he explained with a smile, holding out a hand to each of the children, "no one rides horses around here with all the snow."

Blair pouted, but grabbed her father's hand eagerly, glancing back at Chuck, who remained on their blankets.

After a moment's hesitation, Chuck grabbed Harold's hand as well, and Harold tugged the both of them to a standing position.

"Never, ever, run off again without telling us," he told the both of them sternly, and the two nodded innocently as Eleanor fussed about Blair, brushing the hay from her curls and straightening her coat.

"I promise, Daddy," Blair said solemnly, but when her father's back was turned, she shared a conspiratorial look with Chuck.

One that he returned, a tiny smirk on his features.

…

"Chuck?"

"Blair?" He rubbed his eyes sleepily as he sat up, looking around for the voice that had woken him up.

She stood, in her nightgown, in his doorway, looking around at his room curiously.

"It's a lot smaller than mine and Serena's," she noticed, and Chuck frowned at her comment.

"That's because there are _two_ beds in yours and Serena's room!" he cried, and Blair turned around quickly, to make sure no one had heard him.

"Shh," she said, closing the door behind her and making her way to his bed.

"Why are you here?" Chuck asked, as Blair sat down across from him.

"I couldn't sleep," Blair admitted, picking at the bandage on her left hand.

"Does it hurt?" Chuck asked, nodding towards the bandage.

Blair scrunched up her tiny nose, then shook her head no. "Only when Dorota poured that stuff on it. It hurt a lot."

"I'm sorry," Chuck apologized, and for someone who apologized so infrequently, he seemed to be making a lot of apologies that night.

Blair shrugged again. "It's alright. I had fun today."

"Me too," Chuck admitted.

"Want to know a secret?" Blair asked, eyes glittering mischievously in the dark.

"Okay!" Chuck agreed eagerly.

"I crossed my fingers when Daddy made me promise," Blair divulged with an impish smile.

"So we're going on another adventure?" Chuck asked enthusiastically.

Blair nodded. "But let's not get lost this time."

"We won't," Chuck said confidently, then, after a moment's consideration, "want to know a secret?"

Blair nodded, leaning closer.

Chuck felt it appropriate to reveal one of his own secrets, but as he searched his trove of secrets, felt that he really only wanted to tell one.

"Sometimes I wish I had a Daddy like yours," he admitted.

Blair cocked her head to the side, regarding his words.

"Why?" she finally asked.

"All my dad ever does is work," Chuck said with a frown.

"He's here," Blair pointed out.

"And he's still working," Chuck countered, and Blair looked at him, his eyes despondent, his chin in his hands. "Do you want to know another secret?"

Blair, after a moment's hesitation, nodded again.

"He thinks I killed my mother," Chuck whispered quietly, and the confession was one that had been eating away at him ever since he had overheard a conversation between his third nanny and his father. It was a confession that made Blair's eyes go wide, and an odd feeling—_sympathy_, she would later learn—coursed through her.

"That's not true," Blair said firmly, and Chuck looked at her in surprise. "I _know_ he loves you."

"Really?" Chuck asked doubtfully.

Blair nodded emphatically. "Yes. And I know that if your Mommy was alive, she'd love you too."

"Sometimes he doesn't love me at all," Chuck said, and Blair searched her brain for a way to make him feel better.

"Don't worry, Chuck," she said with a bright smile. "I'll always be your family."

"Really?" Chuck repeated his question, this time, with a smile.

"Always," Blair promised.

Always.

* * *

_fin_


	6. Silver Bells

**AN: Still continuing to finish up these holiday oneshots. I do hope they're still enjoyable though technically not 'in season' (haha!). Thank you all for your wonderful reviews:) This one's a bit different in that it's more of a collection of interconnected vignettes than an actual oneshot. A quick note about the children: their personalities are quite apparent at a young age, and though Amory Bass' is not (he's barely a year old!), I hope his name will be somewhat indicative of his character. (Hint: This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald).  
**

**Silver Bells**** was written for _2010blueberry_, another twitter lovely who is quite the writer herself. I had the honor of helping with an assignment which (lucky her!) explored the enigma that is Chuck and Blair. Not only that, but she's a fantabulous reviewer, friend, and all-around amazing person. Merry Christmas, B!**

**Bethaboo continues to be my beta extraordinaire, and I do so love her for it.  
**

* * *

"_S__ilver bells, silver bells _

_It's Christmas time in the city. _

_Ring-a-ling, hear them sing. _

_Soon it will be Christmas day."_

-Silver Bells

* * *

_Christmas Cards_

"Mommy," Victoria Bass whined, small rosebud lips pouting as she mindlessly played with the fake snow, "this is boring."

"Just a few more minutes," Blair said through gritted teeth, attempting to clothe their youngest, Amory Bass. Even with the aid of Dorota, the task proved difficult as the barely-one-year-old wasn't having any of it, putting as much of a fuss and trouble as possible. His older brother, Spencer Bass, sat beside his father, captivated by the book in his hands

"Blair," Chuck tried, Blackberry in hand, "I have a meeting in—"

"Don't you _dare_ leave before we take this picture," Blair hissed, and Chuck held up his hands in mock defeat.

"I'll cancel with your mother, then," Chuck said, and Blair narrowed her eyes.

"Why are you meeting with my mother?" she asked, still attempting to clothe a wailing Amory in his miniature sweater vest. And Chuck only answered with a smirk, further igniting Blair's fury.

"_Where_ are the photographers?" she nearly growled, looking around the spacious Bass penthouse, as if men wielding lights and cameras were to appear at any moment. "The set designers, hair, makeup, were all here on time. Is it that difficult to get photographers who come on _time_?"

"You were the one who insisted on booking what's-his-name," Chuck countered playfully, and Blair, who finally managed to dress Amory, shot him a look of pure annoyance.

"Anthony Pierre," Blair corrected. "Only the best, he shot mother's campaign for Pre-Fall." She finished with another glare, the one that told him she would be withholding sex for a week if he didn't get _something_ to go right.

At the same moment, Victoria, deciding that she'd had enough of being ignored, decided to take off her headband—a gorgeous band of red silk and seed pearls that matched her mother's shoes—and fling it at her unsuspecting brother.

"Hey!" Spencer cried, as the headband hit his glasses, landing with a clatter at his feet. Incensed, he proceeded to stomp on the headband, causing a shriek to erupt from Victoria.

"Mommy!" she wailed. "Spence broke my headband! The one Daddy brought back—"

Blair turned to Chuck, exasperated, and he scooped up his princess, placating her while Spencer tugged at his immaculately pressed pants, claiming that _Vicky_ had started the fight.

Victoria, who absolutely _loathed_ being called Vicky, continued to cry, until Chuck was left with two crying, wailing children. Blair, who had finally gotten Amory to settle down, turned to her two other children,

"Victoria, apologize to your brother," she said firmly.

"But—"

"_Now_." Blair said, and the two children knew that her tone meant serious business.

"I'm sorry," Victoria said, blinking innocently, "for throwing my headband at you." Spencer, who had dried his tears, smiled back at his older sister.

"I'm sorry for ruining your headband," he said quietly, and Victoria nodded. The two children turned expectantly towards their mother, who nodded in approval.

At that moment, Anthony arrived, with air-kisses and gushing over _"zee adorable children"_, and they assembled in front of the camera, smiles in place.

Before Anthony had taken the first shot, Amory had grabbed a fistful of his sister's hair, pulling it gleefully. Victoria, in turn, cried out, elbowing Spencer in the side.

And Blair sighed as the chaos erupted once more, exchanging a weary look with Chuck.

"Let's just use last year's pictures from Vail?" he whispered, and Blair snapped to attention, quickly ordering her children back in place.

"_Never_," she whispered back.

Three hours, a trip to Bendels for a new headband, and one pair of ruined shoes later, Blair got her picture.

"Next year, we'll just photoshop them in," Chuck whispered.

Blair sighed, but nodded in agreement.

—

_Christmas Tree_

"We can't," Chuck declared, looking at the enormous tree Spencer had picked out.

"Why not?" Spencer asked dolefully, looking up at his father with a distressing expression. "I like it."

"Dorota would kill us," Chuck explained.

"Dorota likes me too much," Spencer countered. "She always gives me extra cookies."

"Mommy would kill us," Chuck reasoned, taking in the sheer size of the tree. If they ever managed to get it into the penthouse, it would be a miracle.

Spencer shook his head, "Nuh-uh. Mommy would _never_. She says that about you a lot, though," Spencer realized, his small brow furrowed.

Chuck heaved a sigh, and then tried a different tact. "We'll never be able to get it into the penthouse, Spence."

"No!" Spencer exclaimed again, clearly frustrated with his father's attempts at thwarting the _perfect_ tree. "There's big doors that we can bring it through!"

"We'll need at least twenty people," Chuck tried again, though one look at Spencer's determined features and he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"We can hire people from Brooklyn," Spencer said expertly, and Chuck had to laugh at the statement.

"Have you been spending too much time with your mother?" he teased, and Spencer's expression instantly became serious.

"It's not _my_ fault you're always on planes, Daddy."

The statement struck ice into his heart, and all lightness had been removed from the situation as Chuck kneeled down, face to face with his son.

"I'm not always away," he insisted.

"I see Mommy more than you," Spencer said, kicking at snow with the toe of his boot.

"Spence…" Chuck began uneasily, knowing that his absences from the children had not gone unnoticed. It was a point of contention between him and Blair, but he was _trying_. He hadn't missed a birthday, a soccer game, a ballet recital, or a holiday yet. That was more than Bart could claim.

"I know," Spencer said with a sigh, continuing to look down at the snow. "Mommy says you're important. And one day, I'll be important too."

"She's right," Chuck murmured. "I'm trying, Spence. I'm trying to be here and I'm trying to be CEO, and I'm trying to keep the board happy, and I'm trying to make sure you guys see me more than once a week. I'm—"

"What's a see-eee-oh?" Spencer interrupted, his natural curiosity overcoming his former despondence.

"Something you'll get to be one day," Chuck said with a wry smile, and Spencer stretched out his tiny arms, wrapping them around his father's neck.

"Ms. Davies says it's not how many stars you get. It's how hard you _try_," Spencer said wisely, and Chuck wrapped his arms around his son, relishing the moment. "And I think you get twenty zillion stars for trying, Daddy."

After a moment, a moment in which his throat seemed unable to produce words, and there was an uncharacteristic dampness in his eyes, Chuck released his son.

"We'll get the tree," he said, and Spencer smiled happily, running ahead to tell the man waiting on the sidelines.

On the limo ride home, the massive tree following behind them, Spencer turned to his father.

"I think it's okay that you're on planes sometimes," Spencer began, as if he had been planning the speech for quite some time, "but you love us, right?"

"Of course," Chuck said, the only words he had managed to get out.

"And you love _me_ best, right Daddy?" Spencer asked innocently, blinking up at his father.

Chuck nodded conspiratorially. "But don't tell your sister."

Spencer clapped in glee, and then assured his father that Victoria was certainly _not_ privy to that sort of information anyways.

…

"Daddy," Victoria asked as the door opened. "What is _that_?"

"A tree," Chuck explained, and a few weary men carried the most enormous tree Victoria had ever seen. Chuck merely stood by, overseeing the production as Blair descended the stairs, wide-eyed.

"Chuck," she said warningly, and Chuck merely shrugged.

"Spence chose it," he claimed, and Spencer, who was grinning proudly at his mother, nodded.

"Where are we going to put it?" Blair asked incredulously, taking in the sheer size of the tree. The five men, who had just carried the colossal tree twenty-seven flights of stairs, nearly groaned at the prospect of having to bring it back down.

"Right there, of course," Chuck nodded towards the cleared space in the foyer, one meant for a smaller, more modest tree.

Blair shook her head, "Chuck, there's no way building management is going to let that tree in here."

Chuck merely shrugged. "They've been taken care of."

Blair frowned, and was about to argue when Spence turned to her, eyes baleful.

"Please, can we keep the tree?" he asked plaintively, and Blair relented with a reluctant nod.

As the children swarmed around the tree, Chuck related his and Spencer's conversation to Blair.

Blair looked him in the eye, noting the slight distress that had permeated his words.

"They don't have to work for your love," Blair said simply. "That's enough."

"I promised I wouldn't be an absentee father like—"

"And you kept that promise," Blair assured him, then they turned towards the tree, and their children, which were very nearly hidden beneath the tree's breadth.

"I suppose we'll be needing to buy extra presents to fill up the space under the tree," she pondered aloud with a laugh.

"Then it's a good thing you married one of the richest men in New York," Chuck smirked.

Blair only rolled her eyes, and the family descended upon the boxes of tinsel and enamel ornaments, with Blair deciding the color scheme was to be red and gold, and Spencer simply putting ornaments around as far as he could reach.

In the end, the tree did not befit the rest of the Basses' penthouse décor. If anything, it was simply a medley of differently colored ornaments, clumps of tinsel, and strings of lights.

Blair knew that she wouldn't be able to stand the tree, but at the delighted look upon Spencer's face, decided that this Christmas, their tree could be less than perfect.

—

_Mistletoe_

"Anna!" Victoria greeted her best friend, the blonde Anna Humphrey, with a smile, and Serena and Blair exchanged a smile over their daughter's heads. The Humphrey's annual holiday party was in full swing and though Dan had formerly shunned all forms of society events, had grown to (somewhat) accept the Upper East Side.

Even though the Humphreys technically lived in the Upper West Side.

Their two girls rushed off, and Blair looked after the two of them fondly, remembering similar experiences with Serena.

"And there's my favorite godchild!" Serena was saying, happily playing with Amory, who babbled happily in return.

Spencer, having tucked himself into a corner and was now reading his book, was soon joined by Dan, who had often found himself drawn to the young Bass. In the same way Victoria embodied her parent's headstrong, confident, and sometimes temperamental personalities, Spencer was quieter, more reserved.

Though Chuck and Blair had initially frowned upon such a friendship, the Basses had learned to tolerate Dan Humphrey—if only for Serena and Spencer's sake. Barbs were still traded in terms of Dan's Brooklyn roots and Chuck and Blair's elitism, but they had forged an odd sort of quasi-friendship.

"What are you reading?" Dan was asking, and Spencer looked up at the intruder, a tiny frown on his face. His parents' disdain of Dan Humphrey and Brooklyn was evident, but Spencer couldn't understand what his Mommy and Daddy (and Victoria) found so repulsive.

"It's an old book," Spencer told him, showing the worn cover off proudly. "It was Mommy's."

"_The Wizard of Oz_?" Dan said incredulously, thinking it amazing that a five-year-old would be reading such a prodigious story.

"I don't get a lot of words," Spencer admitted sheepishly. "But I like the pictures. And I know the story anyways."

"You've seen the movie?" Dan guessed, small smile playing on his lips.

"No!" Spencer shook his head vehemently. "Mommy reads this story to me a lot. I like it."

"What's your favorite part?" Dan asked, and Spencer launched into a description of the Emerald City, and the way his mother had described it to him, eyes sparkling and babbling excitedly.

As Chuck and Blair exchanged glances regarding Dan and Spencer's odd relationship, they moved off to the side, Serena continuing to carry a conversation with them, greet her guests, and play with Amory all at once. Turning around, Amory on her hip, Serena smirked at the two.

"Look," she said happily, pointing above their heads. "Mistletoe!"

Chuck looked at Blair, devilishly handsome smirk playing at the edges of his lips, and Blair simply rolled her eyes and without warning, the two were wrapped in a kiss that made Serena squeal and cover Amory's eyes as she walked away quickly.

Their children happily occupied, Chuck wrapped his arm around Blair's waist, smirking as he suggested they re-visit Serena's coat closet.

And Blair had agreed with a wicked smile of her own, pulling him along in the direction of the enormous hall closet.

When the emerged a while later, hair slightly disheveled, clothes mussed, Serena and Dan had given them matching dirty looks, ones they ignored. Instead, the two made their rounds, chatting easily with other members of New York's elite.

Until, they found themselves in a corner, Victoria rushing up to them with glee in her eyes.

"Mommy!" she said excitedly, launching herself at her parents. "Guess what?"

"Yes?" Blair asked, smoothing her daughter's hair with an amused smile.

"I just had my first kiss," the girl confessed, her eyes bright as Chuck's expression darkened. "It was like everything you ever said—"

"_What_?" Chuck exclaimed, then, off everyone's curious looks, lowered his voice, crouching down to eye level with his daughter.

"My first kiss," Victoria explained pointedly, and Blair had to stifle a laugh with the back of her hand. "Under the mistletoe, of course."

Chuck swore lightly under his breath, and then stomped off in the direction of Serena, his expression livid.

Blair, meanwhile, simply gathered her daughter into her arms, marveling at how big Victoria had grown.

"Who was it with?" she asked, and a moment was shared between mother and daughter as Victoria giggled excitedly, then launched into an explanation of Kieran Reed. Blair recalled herself in Victoria as her daughter told tale after tale, eyes animated and cheeks flushed.

"…and then he _kissed_ me, on my cheek, Mommy," Victoria was saying confidentially, the girlish excitement present in her voice. "Right under the mistletoe, like those old movies you like to watch."

Blair looked at her daughter fondly, and then assumed a sterner expression.

"You know you're only seven," Blair said, and Victoria rolled her eyes.

"Of course, Mommy," she said with a huff, before running off to find Anna. Blair shook her head with a smile, and then made her way to her husband and best friend, knowing that she would need to save the latter from the former.

And as she approached the two, her suspicions were confirmed as she caught bits and pieces of their conversation, most of which consisted of Chuck berating Serena for having _mistletoe_ around when there were seven-year-olds present.

—

_Christmas Morning_

"Daddy bought each and every one of my presents _personally_, Chuck," Blair chastised Chuck, who lagged a few steps behind her in Saks, bogged down by the ridiculous amount of shopping bags they had already amassed.

"Your father was ga—"

The venomous glare she threw over her shoulder shut him up quickly, and her next comment closed the subject.

"We're buying our children's presents. I'm not having your _assistant_ do it. She can buy presents for the Humphreys. I'll buy Serena's, of course. And Anna's."

"That would just leave Dan," Chuck pointed out, but knew that his point had been ignored when Blair continued to walk away. "We've been shopping for nearly eight hours—" Chuck attempted to reason, but Blair ignored him, turning to the monogrammed stationery in hand.

"We've got all of Amory's presents," she said, smiling as she folded up their youngest son's list (which had been compiled by his parents), "but we've still got to buy a first-edition _Winnie the Pooh_, for Spencer."

"And Victoria?" Chuck prompted, knowing that their daughter's (or rather, Princess') list was by far the most extensive.

"We got most of it," Blair said, frowning at the list, "but we've still got to buy her twenty cashmere sweaters, thirty tarps, eleven pairs of shoes, and seventeen different board games."

"The rest are understandable," Blair began, brow furrowed as she browsed through racks of glittery Mary Janes and soft leather pennyloafers, "but _tarps_? What, is she going _camping_?"

"You camp in a tent," Chuck pointed out, only to be on the receiving end of another quelling frown. "Maybe she wants to play a game."

"Victoria's past that stage," Blair said with a shake of her head. "Dorota tells me she refuses to play with Spencer anymore."

Chuck shook his head, effectively dismissing the subject with a few words. "It's no problem to buy the tarps—but we may want to send Larkin out to do that. A Bass has never stepped foot in a _hardware_ store."

"Neither has a Waldorf," Blair was quick to add. "I suppose we'll see what she plans to do with thirty tarps on Christmas."

"And the sooner we finish the shopping," Chuck said with a lascivious smile, "the sooner we can get to the early Christmas present you promised—"

"Oh," Blair said, absentmindedly turning away from the shoe display. "I forgot to mention, my mother called to say she and Cyrus won't be able to take the children tonight. Something about place settings and the wrong flower arrangements—"

"Well," Chuck said smoothly, "there's always the limo."

…

"Mommy!"

Blair silently thanked God that she'd had the hindsight to force Chuck into putting on a pair of pajama pants, and donned a silk slip herself, after their, _ahem_, reminiscing in the limo the night prior.

Their children were far too inquisitive—not to mention, light sleepers—for their own good.

And Victoria and Spencer ran into their parents' room unbidden, shrieking and yelling and tumbling over themselves.

"Santa came! Santa was here, Daddy! You should see the presents—"

"Darling, let us get dressed," Blair said wearily, as Victoria attempted to drag her half-asleep father out of bed.

"Five minutes!" Victoria said authoritatively, and she and her brother marched from the room, their footsteps and excited speculations clearly heard by their parents.

"I suppose we should get out of bed," Blair said, but before she could step out, a warm arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer.

"We've been told we've only five minutes to get dressed," Blair said in amusement.

"Five minutes is plenty," Chuck murmured, kissing her shoulder before maneuvering her below him.

…

"That was _not_ five minutes," Victoria said twenty-eight minutes later, as her and her brother sat pouting on a couch, staring longingly at the tree.

As their (slightly disheveled) parents stepped into the room, Blair placing Amory in his bassinet beside the couch, the two finally lost their frowns, glancing expectantly up at their parents.

Chuck waved a hand towards the tree, and the two descended upon it furiously, until they could barely be seen beneath a mountain of gold and silver wrapping paper, and cherry red bows.

When the chaos had finally cleared, the presents pushed aside after being _ooh_-ed and _ahh_-ed over, breakfast was to be brought up, as per usual, for the Basses.

But before Victoria joined her family in their dining room, she hung back, quickly sorting a portion of her presents into a separate pile. Chuck, noticing her odd behavior (she was usually the first one to the table—the better to get the most strawberries) hung back as well, watching her from behind a marble pillar.

The presents that she laid aside were the ones he and Blair had been confused over—the thirty tarps. Along with the tarps, she laid aside the cashmere sweaters and shoes, as well as the seventeen board games. Satisfied, she took one last glance at the two piles, and then turned on her heel, to proceed into the dining room.

"What were you doing?" Chuck asked conversationally, and Victoria gave a small start, unaware that she was being watched.

"Sorting my presents," she explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Into what piles?" Chuck pressed, and Victoria frowned. Hadn't she told her parents this before? She remembered her teacher telling the class, and her subsequent idea; hadn't she informed her parents that she'd had _the_ most wonderful idea _ever_?

Apparently not.

"I'm giving those away to charity," she enlightened, a small smile spreading across her face. "Ms. Rochelle told us a story about boys and girls who had no toys on Christmas, and then she told us we could help by giving them those things."

"Cashmere sweaters and tarps?" Chuck asked dubiously. The latter he could understand, the former he could not.

"Mommy always says cashmere is the best," Victoria said expertly. "And not to do things half-way."

"Of course," Chuck said with a wry smile, and he and Victoria entered the dining room, and he turned to his daughter, who was attempting to get into her chair.

"Victoria would like to make an announcement," he said formally, and she turned to him, startled.

But his nod was encouragement enough, and Victoria launched into story after story about boys and girls who had been good, but Santa had missed them year after year, and their tables were empty and stockings barely filled. She finished her tales with the same words her teacher, Ms. Rochelle, had told them.

"We all can help," she said imploringly. "And I _wanted_ to help."

Spencer, who sat in his own chair, napkin already across his lap, fork poised in hand, nodded as well.

"_I_ want to help too," he said, clambering to stand atop his chair, just as Victoria had done. "I want to give away some of my presents. I don't need them all."

And brother and sister shared a rare smile, one that years of sibling rivalry had rendered a miracle.

"We'll go after breakfast," Blair said with a proud smile, one that almost instantly turned to a slight expression of reprimand. "But first, sit _down_, and don't stand on your chair again, Victoria. Spencer, please don't bring books to the table."

The two children stuck their tongues out simultaneously at their mother, who only shook her head sadly as their father smirked.

And so, on Amory Bass' first Christmas, Spencer Bass' fifth, and Victoria Bass' eighth, the impeccably dressed family descended upon New York's homeless shelter. Though Victoria had had a bout of uneasiness, drawing back into the depths of her red coat.

But when Spencer had ventured forward, giving one of his presents and a tarp to a small boy around his age, sitting beside his mother, waiting for their lunch, Victoria had been spurred to do the same.

Until all the presents were gone, and Spencer turned to his parents with an imploring look.

"Are those _all_ the presents we get to give away?"

* * *

_fin_


	7. Still, Still, Still

**AN: Thank you all for your amazing reviews! **

**Still, Still, Still was written for the remarkable _ChairLoveK,_ a fellow Gossip Girl (and Leighton Meester!) addict, whose wonderful reviews I always look forward to reading. This was one of the more difficult oneshots to write - I'll admit to taking nearly four weeks (eep!) with it. But this girl has been incredibly patient, and so thank you, S, and Merry (very late) Christmas!**

**Prompt was a CB S3 Christmas.**

**Tremendous thanks to bethaboo, as always, for being a lightning-fast beta.  
**

* * *

"_Still, still, still,  
One can hear the falling snow.  
For all is hushed,  
The world is sleeping,  
Holy Star its vigil keeping.  
Still, still, still,  
One can hear the falling snow. "_

-Still, Still, Still

* * *

"Let's go away," he suggested, tone forced, eyes hopeful, lips set in a grim line.

Blair turned around, reveling in the feeling of his bare skin against hers as she searched his expression.

A thousand conflicting emotions; all clothed in veils constructed to disguise, to hide, to protect, and only Blair could read him.

Fear, hope, arrogance, trepidation, pessimism, trust…

"Where?"

The smile broke across his face like a ray of sunshine.

"Anywhere," he said, kissing her bare shoulder. "You decide."

Blair searched her brain for a locale, one that hadn't already been tainted by memories they longed to forget, a place they could escape to.

"Somewhere warm?" he prompted, and Blair shook her head.

"I want a White Christmas," she decided.

"Courchevel?"

Blair smiled, nodded.

"I'll make the plans," he confirmed.

…

Two hours later, Blair still lay in bed, head pillowed against Chuck's bare chest, thinking over his proposal.

He was running away, she knew. Though what he was running _from_, she couldn't quite understand. The hospital had initiated a change in their relationship, a catalyst that produced a reaction they couldn't quite gauge. Something had changed.

They just weren't sure what.

But Blair knew for certain something had changed—and this was proof enough.

Chuck was running away.

But this time, he was bringing her along.

The thought brought a smile to her lips and she fell into a dreamless sleep.

…

"Eleanor's angry," Blair announced, pressing the _End_ button with a sigh.

Chuck turned to her with an amused smile.

"She hates me," he stated.

"She does not," Blair countered, but the statement sounded false to her own ears.

"I'm taking her daughter away during the holidays," Chuck pointed out, "she's probably ready to bury me."

Blair shrugged.

"I'd rather spend Christmas with you anyways."

Chuck smirked.

"I've attended more than one Eleanor Waldorf Christmas soirée. You'd rather spend Christmas with Dan Humphrey."

Blair wrinkled her nose.

"And be subjected to flannel? I think not."

…

They were exhausted when the private jet finally landed at the Courchevel airport—and not simply because of Chuck's suggestion they join the mile-high club.

But this Christmas promised fresh powder and snow-covered houses; mistletoe kisses and drama-free dinners.

In short, it was perfect.

And it was exactly what they needed.

…

"I haven't skied since I was twelve," Chuck said with a frown as they stood at the crest of the mountain,

Blair looked at him, shaking her head. "I'm surprised you've skied at all, Bass. We both know your aversion to physical activity."

Chuck began to smirk, but Blair cut him off before a comment about mile-high clubs and uncomfortable bathrooms could be made.

"Besides," she said quickly, "it's like riding a bike."

Chuck raised an eyebrow, and Blair smiled beatifically.

"Fine," he grumbled, and Blair tightened the straps of her ski poles, "it'll be your job to give me sponge baths when I'm in the hospital."

"It's a blue run, Bass," Blair said over her shoulder with a laugh, before disappearing down the mountain.

"Damn woman," Chuck muttered, before tentatively setting off after Blair.

…

Blair stood in the doorway, clothed in only a bathrobe and devious smirk.

"I'm assuming we won't be spending today on the mountains?" she teased, and Chuck groaned from his place in bed, attempting to stretch out his muscles.

"I feel like a truck ran me over," he confessed. "In Brooklyn, where they lack proper medical care."

"They have hospitals in Brooklyn," Blair reprimanded lightly, but her tone carried laughter.

"They do?" Chuck asked in confusion, and Blair smirked, crawling into bed beside him, "You know, I could think of a better way to spend today…" she trailed off suggestively, and she saw Chuck's eyes open for the first time that morning.

"But you're obviously exhausted, so I suppose that'll have to wait," Blair said with a sigh, easily evading Chuck's grasping hands and hopping out of bed, tightening her bathrobe. "I'll be down in the spa if you need me."

She laughed lightly to herself as Chuck's string of curses followed her out of the room.

…

"I'll leave you alone for twenty minutes to relax," Blair's rail-thin, model gorgeous, masseuse said, her voice irritatingly soft.

Blair gave no response, only closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of lavender scented air.

The vacation had been exactly what they needed—a chance to escape from the dramatics of the Upper East Side, to find a small sliver of peace. Blair knew that the anniversary of Bart's death had been difficult on Chuck, and being around a family that was not truly his could have driven him to the same extremes as the last time.

Instead, they found themselves at Cheval Blanc, luxuriating in their time together, free from tragedy.

And a small smile appeared on Blair's lips as she reflected on the Chuck Bass of today compared with the Chuck Bass of last year. He was evidently changed, and she knew that at least part of that change could be attributed to her.

As she was mulling over the change in him, the door opened softly, and her smile turned into a frown. Five minutes, at the most, had passed, and Blair nearly sat up, ready to unleash fury on her interrupter.

But before she had a chance to say a word, she felt a different set of hands on her back, ones that were much larger than that of her masseuse's.

"Chuck, what—"

"Shh," he murmured, and his hands traveled down her back slowly, palms splaying across her hips, trailing across the curve of her ass.

Blair looked over her shoulder, turning onto her back as she continued to half-glare at Chuck.

"Not here," she hissed, glancing around in trepidation.

Chuck only smirked, fingers brushing over curls and dipping lower.

"Chuck—" she protested again, but her protest turned into a moan—which turned into Blair clamping her lips together, praying that she wouldn't be heard as Chuck continued his ministrations.

Blair didn't escape the bewildered looks from the masseuse when she and Chuck exited, hand in hand. From the smug smirk on his features and the faint blush on hers, there was no mistaking what had occurred in the room.

…

Blair propped herself up on her elbow, tracing the outline of his jaw, watching as he snored lightly, countenance peaceful.

It was in these moments, when she would content herself with watching him, that she admitted to herself what he had always thought true.

They were inevitable. Endgame. Destined.

However you put it, it ended up in the same situation in her mind.

A church. Filled to the brim with New York's finest, but at the forefront, their families. Eleanor. Harold and Roman. Lily. Serena. Eric. Nate.

And Chuck in a tuxedo, lavender tie matching the pearly lavender underskirt that peeked out from her dress, a hint of color in a sea of pure white.

Even if Chuck would say that she never had been _pure_. Not since that night in the limo, anyways.

Night was always theirs, she thought. It was where their tumultuous romance had been born.

It had flourished in darkness, hidden in corners and closets, away from prying eyes and curious glances.

Yes, she thought with a sigh. Night had always been theirs.

But as the morning sunshine streamed through the open windows, the snow-capped mountains in the distance, Blair knew that they probably needn't hide in dusk any longer.

"Merry Christmas," she heard, and turned her gaze from the window to Chuck.

"Merry Christmas," she replied, and there was a moment, before he reached up, threading his fingers through her hair and kissing her fiercely, where she saw _something_.

It was the childlike innocence, the glint of happiness at the thought of Christmas morning that she saw. An emotion so unlike Chuck Bass that she couldn't help but be surprised.

…

Blair Waldorf had never been a stranger to decadence and extravagance. She was a Waldorf, after all, having grown up on the Upper East Side, worn baby Dior and had been fed genuine Parisian croissants at the tender age of three.

And yet, she couldn't help but look around in wonderment at the lavishness around her.

"You did all _this_ for our Christmas dinner?" she asked, and Chuck nodded, always-present smirk in place.

"It's the first Christmas we've spent together," he shrugged.

"Chuck Bass, the romantic," Blair teased, but continued to smile as she took in the sumptuously decorated Christmas tree (red and gold, he knew her well), the gilded plates, the spread of food they could never finish between them, and the mistletoe hung ever-so-innocently beside their table. Tall windows reached from floor to ceiling on the opposite side of the room, arching into a domed ceiling that sported an ornate crystal chandelier.

Chuck didn't deny the statement, only took led her, hand on the small of her exposed back, towards the double doors that broke the line of tinted glass windows.

The balcony was large, a dance floor in itself, paved in marble that was barely visible through the thin layer of snow, and encased by a glass railing that offered no obstruction of the view.

And Blair was led towards the farthest end of the balcony, shivering slightly without the protection of her mink wrap.

Courchevel was spread out below them, lodges and hotels mere twinkling lights, plumes of smoke rising in the sky. The sky, spread out above them in inky darkness, dotted with diamonds that matched the ones she wore, a Christmas present from Chuck.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, and she turned her head slightly to catch the tail end of a smirk. "You don't see this in New York."

"No," he agreed, his voice short, almost as if New York was a contentious subject, "you don't."

"I don't wish I was in New York right now," Blair said quietly, noting that Chuck seemed to have something to say.

"But don't you?" he replied, his words so quiet she could barely hear his words.

Blair looked at him, and Chuck turned his head, looking away.

"No," Blair said firmly, small hands framing his face, forcing his gaze back towards hers. "I don't."

"Why?" he whispered.

"Because I wouldn't want to be in New York if you were here," Blair replied simply.

Chuck breathed out sharply.

"I shouldn't have run all those times—"

"You're Chuck Bass," Blair cut in, and he wasn't sure if it was his imagination, the slight note of bitterness in her voice. "But despite that, I love you."

There was a sigh of relief, and in a second, every wall, every protection, every barricade that Chuck had built out of fear of emotion, crumbled down.

"I wasn't running from you," he noted, and Blair nodded. "And I can't change, I can't _not_ be Chuck Bass, but—"

"You brought me along," Blair said softly. "I wasn't left in New York, waking up to an empty pillow and note—" at this, Chuck winced slightly, "—I'm _here_. And that just proves that you're becoming a man in a way that your father never was."

"I don't regret this," Chuck admitted.

"Neither do I," Blair agreed with a smile. "It's nice, isn't it? No Gossip Girl. No Eleanor, no Lily, no Serena, no Nate."

"We should be spending Christmas with family," Chuck stated, though he sounded as though he questioned the veracity of his own words. "Not that I have any."

In a rush of words, everything made sense. Why Chuck had suggested the trip away in the first place—why his suggestion had been tempered with trepidation.

Last year, his father had died—in an accident he had partially blamed himself for—and Chuck had most likely spent Christmas in a haze of illicit drugs and Thai hookers. And though it was unlikely Bart had made a big production of Christmas, Chuck had always at least had the _option_ of spending Christmas with family.

"Chuck—" Blair began, but found herself at a loss.

"Your family may be screwed up," Chuck began instead, and Blair said nothing to contradict his words—they were true, after all—"and the van der Woodsen-Humphreys are probably even more fucked up. But at least they've still got someone to call _family_."

There was a pause, and Blair found herself at a loss once more, before Chuck spoke up.

"I didn't want to spend Christmas alone," he admitted. "There's the van der Woodsens, but that would mean eating waffles and wearing plaid with the Humphreys. I just—"

"I know," Blair said with a small smile, drawing closer to Chuck—partly for warmth, the frigid winter air beginning to make her fingers freeze—"but Chuck, you didn't have to bring _us_ all the way here. I'll always be your family."

And this time, it was Chuck who found himself at a loss of words as Blair threaded her fingers through his.

"Let's go inside," she murmured. "It's freezing."

He nodded, and they crossed the expansive balcony once more, but just before stepping across the threshold and into the bright, warm, inviting space, Chuck stopped her.

"Thank you," he said.

And, perhaps only second to a 'Thank you' she had received in the hospital weeks ago, it was the most genuine thanks she had ever heard.

Blair didn't respond, only reached up to press her lips to his, and he found his arms encircling her waist, closing the door firmly behind them as they stumbled into the room.

Falling slightly backwards, Blair found her bare back against cool glass, her dress being hiked up around her waist as Chuck placed a trail of kisses down her neck.

"Chuck—" she protested.

But, as always, her protest was cut short by his lips capturing hers.

…

They had (eventually) gotten to their (admittedly cold) dinner, and the decadent chocolate dessert that they were currently consuming, gilded dining chairs pulled up next to each other.

Blair had taken one look at the dessert, a layered chocolate mousse with hazelnut dacquoise and chocolate ganache, and instantly recoiled. Her caloric totals from dinner were already in the thousands, and the indulgent dessert was easily two hundred calories per bite. Coupled with the champagne truffles, Blair found herself pushing the plate away, only to be met with a slightly reproachful look from Chuck.

An unspoken moment passed between them, a mutual understanding that led to Blair grabbing her fork in defeat and surrendering to the sinful dessert.

Besides, she thought with a small smirk, sex burned anywhere from six to seven hundred calories. Or so claimed the magazine she had been idly perusing on the plane.

The dessert bore similarities to one of her favorites in Manhattan, from Payard, a bakery she and her father had frequented during the holiday season. The memory brought a nostalgic smile to her lips, lipstick smudged and probably gone.

(She didn't care.)

"What was your favorite Christmas?" Blair found herself asking.

"This one," Chuck said decidedly.

"Doesn't count," Blair said with a shake of her head. "Mine was my twelfth. Daddy bought me my first Hermès. Eleanor didn't mention that I was eating far too many chocolate desserts. We were together. It was the last Christmas before everything fell apart."

Chuck looked thoughtful for a moment, considering the question.

"My ninth Christmas," he finally said, after a prolonged silence. "Bart wasn't working. For once. It wasn't by choice, but we spent four days in Vail, and Bart was without his phone the entire time. He managed to forget it."

"Bart forgot his phone?" Blair asked incredulously, and Chuck shrugged.

"Maybe it wasn't so accidental," he said, though the sentence was tinged with a note of grief. There was no way to ask Bart now. "In any case, we spent four days on the mountain. Just Bart and I. I think it was the first—if only—time I ever spent with him."

A sudden spasm of fear crossed Chuck's features, and he turned towards Blair imploringly.

"I'm not turning into my father," he stated, though it came out sounding more like a question.

Blair shook her head vehemently.

"No. You're not."

And it was the feeling of her small hand in his, her head resting against his shoulder that further reinforced his statement.

Chuck Bass was not his father.

…

The frigid winter air chilled him straight to the bone as soon as he stepped out. The silk robe did nothing to protect his heated skin from the wintry air.

The blinking numbers on the clock reminded him of the late hour—and the fact that it was no longer Christmas.

And he welcomed the cold, inhaling deep lungfuls of air as though he were running out of oxygen.

His eyes began to water, not from emotion, but the air that was beginning to curl around his bare fingers, immobilizing them.

The cold air brought clarity, brought an overwhelming sense of _peace_ that he seemed to have been searching for the entire trip.

Chuck Bass had always been selfish. As a child, toys were solely his, and never meant to be shared. As he grew up, the trait stayed with him, grew more dominant in a way, until all he wanted was Blair for himself.

And so, he _knew_ that asking her to go away with him for Christmas, to a foreign country, no less, was selfish. It was him trying to run from another Christmas of plastered smiles and false thanks. For once, he wanted _family_ around for Christmas.

And Blair Waldorf had always been his family.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
